


It takes Two

by SheyRicci



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, General, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheyRicci/pseuds/SheyRicci
Summary: Dean needs to visit a resident on a remote island and gets caught in bad weather.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Word of warning...I am playing with the 'symptoms and treatment' of shock.
> 
> Sam not looking for Dean never happened...
> 
> FYI...Sam won't show up until chapter 4.
> 
> Sorry, I've been away for a while, blame Airwolf…I got the 'box set' as a gift and I can't stop watching the first 3 seasons...the affection between Hawke and Dom just makes me all 'fluff and fuzzy'!

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

_It's been a long night, and I...well, I just wish I had an idea how long. Hell, I don't even know what time it is. I'm cold, I'm wet, this is mud…I'm covered in mud and it stinks. I'm tired, I hurt so much that yeah, this is pain. I wonder where I am and how I got here._

"Something is wrong."

"Eh?" Wendell jumped the red checker and added it to his growing pile. Opposite him, his opponent growled.

"He doesn't respond right."

"Right?" another jump. "King me."

"You're cheating!" his opponent accused.

"Like, you know, a normal person."

"Normal?"

Betty sighed impatiently – MEN! One hand waving circles in the air, the other slapping against the table, making the checkers bounce slightly, she leaned across the table. "WENDELL JOHNSON stop cheating that poor child at checkers and PAY attention to ME!" Betty stomped her foot for emphasis. "YES! Like a NORMAL person!"

Wendell blinked. Betty could never be labeled a normal person. "Ah…..normal…..how?" he ventured oh-so-carefully. Why was it every time ole Betty got something under her skirts, it became his problem? "Here now, you can't move that way."

"Emotional." she uttered through clenched teeth, clenched jaw, pressed lips. "He doesn't show emotion. He doesn't take comfort or respond to kindness. He's wet and cold and dirty and tired and hungry and in pain yet he doesn't accept the offer of a towel or blanket or hot coffee."

"Ahhh….who?" Wendell really wasn't giving Betty his complete attention – and certainly, history told him that was a mistake – and that simple lapse in memory cost him.

The checkerboard went airborne, red and black chips went helter-skelter and wee Wendy scrambled off her chair to start collecting them. Wise child, Wendell thought belatedly. Hiding on the floor under a table might be the wisest course of action a person could take right about now.

"Don't you dismiss me!" Betty waggled a finger and next thing poor Wendell knew, his ear was grabbed and tweaked. Really, after all the years his ears had suffered such abuse, it was a wonder beyond his comprehension how any cartilage, or whatever, remained to keep his ear attached to his head. Some angel must repair the damage while he slept – be it; glue, staples, tape, stitches, melted wax, Velcro. "Look at him!"

And Wendell looked. Because his head was forcibly turned by the iron grip on his ear. Aah, she must mean the stranger who had sauntered in some 20 minutes or so ago and taken a seat at an empty table. Oh yes, Wendell had noticed him. Who hadn't?

"Looks okay to me." he said stupidly, because after all, he was male and if he hadn't learned after his 75+ years on God's good earth, to know better, he was never going to.

She glared. Oh, but she'd get him back for that comment at a later date when he was least expecting it because by then, he would have thought she'd forgotten all about it.

"He's mobile….he walked in here. He's capable of getting anything he wants himself." he said before thinking the entire thought through. Right, when irate, Betty would attempt to shake some sense into him – even if she only rattled his head about. Uhgauhgauhga….his dentures clacked and his hand crept up to protect his other ear. As hard as she was able to shake his head all about, as much force as she used that caused him to slide about on the chair, she never lost her grip.

Nope. Never.

"Now see here Bet, you're causing a scene." Wendell attempted to lighten the tense moment. "Scared wee Wendy right out of the room." the child had fled with all her checkers and the board once she'd collected them all.

"Something is wrong." Betty stated, releasing her iron grip on Wendell's now swollen, red ear. "You drape a blanket around his shoulders and he just sits there, makes no move to hug it or pull it tight around his shoulders for added warmth. It falls to the floor and he just leaves it."

_I should get up, find a bathroom, wash up. Get out of these wet clothes. There's a blanket on the floor. I should get up, find a bathroom….blanket. I'm cold._

Now, wait, say what? Wendell opened his mouth to point out they were in the isle's only public bar and usually, patrons were not offered blankets even if six-year olds ran freely about, but she warned him off with a raised finger and he closed it without uttering a sound.

"You set a mug of coffee in front of him, the steam in his face and he ignores it. How is that normal? No one ignores coffee!"

Maybe the man didn't drink coffee. Any why would a patron be offered anything to drink, if he, you know, didn't ask for it? And why was Betty making this his problem?

"Maybe he doesn't have the coin to pay for it." stupid, stupid, stupid. Oh, but he was going to pay for that stupid, not-thought-through comment too. He needed to start writing this shit down and mark off each one when Betty retaliated so he'd know how many more she had to go.

Betty ignored his ear and now their noses touched. "You will go over there and you will talk to him and you will take care of this, do you understand me?"

Take care of what?!

"What do you…eh….want to me do?" he dared, no longer sure what to say or do or offer. He was too familiar with bland food, starched underwear, the washing machine stealing all the cold water when he was in the shower and Betty's sudden loss of memory when it came to needed missing objects – such as his car keys or his glasses or his teeth; and didn't she just always serve steak for dinner when his teeth couldn't be located – to doubt he wouldn't pay dearly for this latest faux pas.

He didn't want to go over there. The guy was big. And scary. And aloof. He wasn't at all approachable. He'd walked through the door all on his own, he could leave the same way. Why did women always have to meddle? Why didn't they know when to quit? Why weren't they content to leave well enough alone?

Betty threw her hands up and stomped away. She did know when to meddle, when to back off and when to leave well enough alone. Wendell had an uncanny knack of reading people; of judging a situation; of knowing what to do. He might not want to get involved, but he could handle whatever ailed the poor man sitting all alone at a table, so she'd make, erhm, let him.

Wendell rubbed his jaw, pondering the situation. He sighed and turned to study the man who indeed sat alone at a table, mug of coffee sitting in front of him untouched, blanket half off one shoulder, completely off the other. Well, she had a point. He just sat there. Staring. At nothing. His gaze unfocused.

Shock, Wendell wondered?

He was dirty. He was disheveled. He was wet. That was quite probably blood on his face and down his neck. His hands, splayed on the red and white checkered tablecloth in front of him, were mud-covered, scabbed, split, cracked, bleeding. His right hand had a hastily wrapped and tied dirty bandage around his palm and wound between thumb and finger. And he simply sat there. Doing nothing.

Wendell didn't like one thing about this guy – this stranger among them.

Not. One. Thing.

'Cause, oh he had an air, an atmosphere all about him. His posture. His stance. His expression. Said it all. It all might as well have been a blinking, flashing neon sign that said: I am dangerous. I take charge. I am in command. I expect all orders issued by me – and I'm used to issuing orders – to be instantly obeyed. I don't take disobedience well. Don't make me mad.

"Why does shit like this always happen to me?" Wendell muttered, marching across the floor. Once he got closer, he could detect a fine trembling or shivering, maybe shaking, whatever from the stranger who did not acknowledge Wendell's approach. "Cause you're a sucker for the old hens, that's why." he continued. "No one else will take their cackling."

_Stay the fuck away from me._

The winter storm – blizzard really – had kicked up out of nowhere and the displaced residents had gone to the elementary school gymnasium seeking shelter from the fast moving, somewhat violent weather that had knocked out power from severe winds with multiple structures sustaining damage. They were on an isle accessible by air or by boat, so where had this fellow come from?

The bar – much like an American Legion – was safe. The loss of power was not a real hardship for them – the building as well as the school had its own natural gas fueled generator. Had to, being out here on the isle and all. Still, how had this guy managed to find the bar? Had he found the local deputy's office, he would have been directed to the school.

_Leave. Me. Alone._

Hey, now! How _had_ this guy gotten here to Betty's place? Chopper? Boat? Had he swum over from the mainland? Doubtful. Not with the bay having frozen over. In fact, they were marooned on the isle until the Coast Guard came through with their ice cutter. And that wouldn't happen until the storm subsided and daylight dawned.

_Who the fuck is this asshole? What does he want? I'm in no mood dude. Back off._

"Hello there." Wendell greeted cheerfully. "Folks call me Wendell." he waited. "You got a name?" nothing. "You don't want me to call you sir or mister, do ya?" meet any and all potential death threats head-on was Wendell's motto. That this man was lethal was not in doubt.

Silence. The stranger didn't move. Didn't blink an eye. Didn't twitch.

_Yes, I have a name! Just…..not sure what it is._

"I see the ladies have brought you some coffee."

_Aah, so that's what this is. Eh, what am I supposed to do with it? Duh Dean, drink it probably._

No response.

"Would you rather have tea?"

_Tee? Tee what? Tee-ball? Tee-shirt? What the fuck do you want me to do with the letter tee?_

No response.

"So, is there someone maybe I can call for you? Are you visiting someone on the isle?"

_Yeah, yeah guess there is. Kinda. Maybe. Somewhere. Not here though._

Nothing.

"Well, alrighty then." Wendell rubbed his palms together. "I'll just go notify the, ah, medics then. Yeah, that's them. They're marine volunteers but they're on the isle and know a bit about injury." now that got a response. Wendell took a step back as Dean raised his head just enough he could look up without doing much more than raise his eyebrows. "More so maybe fins and gills, but an injury is…."

"NO!" came a raspy forceful croak.

"Ah, then." Wendell pulled out a chair across the table from the man and took a seat. "Got a name?"

_Uh-huh. It's….it's…god-dammit…it's…..son-of-a-bitch, I know this!_

"Dean." was the reply after a lengthy moment. That was it. One syllable. Nothing more.

_HA! Take that! I do know it._

Wendell was quiet. Should he poke and prod and push at this guy? Or go back and mind his own business? This Dean sure was a big fella and Wendell took his time judging how to best handle the situation. He didn't want to rush it and make stupid mistakes but he didn't have all the time he would like to have either. Ole Betty would be content to keep her nose out of Dean's business for only so long. And he didn't need her waddling over here waggling fingers and grabbing ears. Nuh-uh. He eyed Dean…most likely, this here stranger named Dean would slap fingers and break wrists then ask questions – if he spoke at all.

_What the hell you looking at? I got spinach in my teeth or something?_

Well then, what to do? What to do? Mysterious, dark strangers emitting dangerous vibes and oozing intrigue like Dean was didn't appear on their isolated fishing isle every day – or at all. Huhmmum, Wendell mused, well-ell, despite the _potential_ for sudden violence, Dean didn't _appear_ to be a threat, so might as well push at him a bit.

_No, no, I don't eat spinach unless Sammy brings home hoagies, then I eat so many veggies and greens and leafs I can't taste what a man is supposed to eat. Meat._

"Well Dean, mighty curious to know how you got here to our little isle. Don't get many strangers here. Never in this kind of weather." he paused but Dean showed no acknowledgement. "You come here to see someone mebbe?"

_Huh, ummm…aaahhhh…think dammit….my head hurts!_

But Dean didn't respond. He didn't attempt to make eye contact or engage in following Wendell's attempt at small talk. He didn't stop shivering nor did he try to blink his eyes into focus. Hmmm….so again, what….shock? Now Wendell was no expert in medical diagnoses or in treatment of injury, but he knew a cold, wet, tired man in pain when he saw one.

"Murtha." Dean shuddered, hunching his shoulders up to his ears in discomfort when beads of water melted from his ice-capped hair and trickled down his cheek. He made no attempt to raise a hand and wipe it away.

"Aah….I see." and Wendell did. He would address that issue in a bit, but first…."Say now, let's go get you cleaned up." decision made, Wendell stood up and cautiously reached to lay a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean immediately shrugged free of the touch but made no other move. Wendell gently took hold of Dean's elbow and guided him to his feet. Dean didn't resist, easily rising to stand but he did pull his elbow away.

_Go? Go where? I don't want to go anywhere. I just got here. And it's warm and dry. So, I'm good, you can go away and lemme be._

"So you don't like to be touched." Wendell observed. "No mind, I'll just lead, you follow."

Good plan, right? Right. No. Didn't happen. Dean just stood there, flinching and shrugging away from any attempt by Wendell to lay a hand on him – if only to guide him.

 _I told you_ , a _in't goin' nowhere. Like it fine right here._

"From behind." wee Wendy spoke up. "You're spooking him Uncle Wendell."

"Say what little one?" Wendell asked mildly. "Hey now, watch it. Don't get so close. Back up a bit there, munchkin."

"Like a horse. You cover his eyes." Wendy rolled her eyes. Adults so liked to overcomplicate things. "Like this." she played peek-a-boo. "See?"

"You want me to cover his eyes?" Wendell said doubtfully. "He's a bit old to play peek-a-boo and really I don't think he's feeling up to trying it. Not a good idea anyway. He needs to see to walk. He's shaky enough."

_Try it and you'll die where you stand!_

"No!" she waved her hand impatiently – a darned good imitation of Betty if Wendell ever did see one. "Push him from behind. Gently. Like this." she was behind Dean before Wendell could blink, let alone make a move to stop her. With her palms pushing against the small of Dean's back, she pushed him forward. "See?"

And darn it all if Dean didn't stumble a step, then another until wee Wendy was 'steering' him across the floor.

"Kitchen?" Wendy called, glancing over her shoulder to catch Wendell's nod. "And to the right we go!" she informed Dean who turned to his right and kept his shuffling pace. "That's it. Keep going. Almost there,"

Shaking his head, Wendell pushed in the chair Dean had vacated and ambled off after the duo. Now, wasn't that just a sight to see – wee Wendy pushing a big, possibly dangerous man who offered no resistance other than a shuffling step, across the room with both hands wedged against his lower back, her head bent with the effort of her task. So, was Wendy correct Dean was willing to go anywhere as long as he led? Or was it merely because the only person touching him was a harmless child?

"Here you go Aunt Betty!" Wendy announced. "He's got some boo-boos for you to make all better."

"WENDELL MATTHEW JOHNSON!" Betty bellowed. "How DARE you?!"

And the kitchen hens all started a-squawking.

"Lorda Mercy!"  
"He's got WENDY!"  
"Someone do something!"

How dare I what, Wendell thought, all I did was what you ordered me to do. I took care of the situation.

"What AILS you?" Betty continued to rant, whapping at Wendell with a dish towel.

And all the other hens continued to cackle:

"Wendy! Dear child, step away from him right this very moment!"  
"Wendy! Whatever are you doing? Come here right this minute!"  
"Goodness child, beware!"  
"You let her go, you behemoth!"  
"How dare you!?"

_AACK! What the…? What the fuck was this? The hell did I walk into?_

Wendell held his hands up for a call of peace and pulled a folding chair out from a side counter. He patted the seat and after a good moment's hesitation, Dean plopped down. And did nothing. Just sat there. Shivering so violently, his feet jounced on the floor and made the chair rattle.

_Aw, fuck, I don't feel good._

"Ladies, ladies, ladies!" Wendell clapped his hands. "Simmer down!"

But the kitchen ladies continued to cluck and flutter, causing loud commotion in the kitchen and Betty came at him, snapping her towel. Wendell didn't attempt to avoid it. It was a dish towel and even when she landed it against his skin, it caused no harm and certainly no pain, but whoa, oh whoa…Wendell paused, eyes narrowing at the very slight, almost unnoticeable – in fact, no one but he even noticed it! – reaction of the man sitting seemingly immobile on the stool.

Dean blinked. Once. Just once. Only once.

Wendell frowned, oh but, Dean did not like that. Wendell held up a hand up for silence and waved it for all commotion to cease. Of course, he was ignored.

Betty was still nattering on, multiple hands had hold of Wendy and were literally picking her up to move her away from the chair upon which Dean sat. The towel snapped again, then again. Wendell asked for Betty to stop. The towel whapped his elbow.

Dean's hands, which hung loosely between his knees, his elbows supported on his thighs, didn't move – they did not move – yet Wendell knew, _he knew,_ that those ten fingers, despite the bandage and scabbed knuckles, flexed and tensed. Almost as if this stranger amongst them was fighting _himself_ not to make a fist and react in some way.

_No…no…no….nooooo…. come on, fight it, you can do it, keep control, fight for it, don't let go…..don't…..keep it steady._

"Betty, stop that." Wendell said sharply yet without bite, not taking his eyes off Dean. He didn't want to startle Dean by barking. "Betty stop." did Dean just tighten the muscles on his left leg? Was that tension? Was he poised to launch from the chair and attack? "BETTY LOU! I SAID STOP!" Wendell finally barked. "Enough!"

Oh, that did it. The hens instantly settled and went quiet. No one clucked. No one moved. Someone had frozen the room. Wendell had used Betty's entire first name, and everyone gaped in stunned awe, waiting for her reaction. Seconds passed and soon, heads bobbled and swung in unison, back and forth, as if watching a tennis volley, from Betty to Wendell and back.

"We don't know anything about him." Wendell said more calmly. "It's best to proceed with caution around him and you don't want to do anything to make him feel cornered or feel he needs to protect himself."

"Protect himself against who? ME?!" Betty put her hand to her puffed-out chest in offense. "Why I never!"

And the hens puffed-up in outrage with her – and again, all went a-flutter.

"Wendell's right!"  
"Oh my God!"  
"He's evil."  
"He could be a violent rapist!"  
"A murderer!"  
"A criminal!"  
"He's a dangerous killer!"

And on and on and on and so on.

_I have a knife. A big one. I know how to use it. It will take your head off in one swing. No chopping required._

"Ladies! Simmer down." Wendell motioned with his hands, palms to the floor, patting the air. "Now, how about some hot water and a towel….." Betty waved hers. Wendell eyed it dubiously. "….a soft towel…."

She stuck her tongue out at him and turned away to bang pots out of a cupboard that she filled with water from the sink and put on the stove to boil. Wendell thought it best not to ask what was wrong with water out of the hot spigot.

"Say Wendy, why don't you go get the first aid kit out of the ladies room?" Wendell suggested with a patient smile and Wendy shrugged and went off on her merry-old way. "Good girl." he called after her. "Okay then, let's see what we got here."

"You just sent that child off on a useless errand." Betty tutted. "You well know the first aid kit is right here in this kitchen." her foot tapped, the towel swished. "Sometimes, I swear, what good sense the Lord gave you…."

"She'll hunt it down." Wendell replied absently. "Gives her something to do for a bit."

"Aah." Betty nodded, understanding. "You wanted her out of the room."

"Well, duh!" Wendell uttered unwisely. Oh….that look. Yup, he was gonna pay for that comment one time when he was least expecting it. He really needed to start making that list. What was he up to? Three? "Look at him Bet…" he lowered his voice to a whisper, not wanting to spook the flock again. "Tread carefully around him until he responds to us in some way."

"You think he would hurt a child?" she whispered back, aghast. "Just let him try! I have my rolling pin! And it's not one of those cheap pretty things from the stores today! No Sir! Solid wood mine is. Even the handles! Ring his bell good, it will. Why, I'll just…."

"Bet…" Wendell sighed. "I don't even know he won't hurt us!"

"Oh." Betty fell silent and turned to eyeball the man sitting so still on the chair. "Well." she began grudgingly. "He is big." Wendell was not a stupid man and despite all she said and did, Betty both admired and trusted Wendell's instincts and intellect. If he was cautious around the stranger, there was good reason to proceed with extreme care. "Do you think he is violent?"

Big. Dark. Dangerous. Mysterious. But violent? Ruthless? Brutal? Vicious? Fierce? Savage? The potential was there, Wendell decided, yet he felt no immediate threat from him.

"Best we not scare him." Wendell spoke slowly. "We don't give him a reason where he feels threatened or cornered I doubt he'll come out swinging at us."

"Humph." was that supposed to be reassuring? "We could send him over to the shelter at the school." she suggested. "Deputy Roger is there."

Wendell remembered Dean saying 'Murtha' when he'd asked if Dean had come to the isle seeking someone but he wasn't willing to share that tidbit of information with Betty just yet. "Best we keep him here." Wendell decided. "Mostly women and kids over at the school. All the noise might unsettle him a bit."

_Uh, yeah! I'd say so! I don't do people._

"You think you can handle him?" Betty inquired doubtfully. "I don't see how."

"Carefully and with your help."

_Yeah, that's it, play on her ego Wendell, you sly old man. I'm fine staying right here._

"So then Dean." Wendell said quietly. "We'll go at a pace you feel okay with, how about that? For starters, how about we get you out of this wet coat? Hmm?"


	2. Chapter 2

Betty tut-tutted and pooh-poohed but nonetheless, rolled up her sleeves, shouldered her ever-present towel and helped Wendell get to work disrobing Dean. By working together and talking softly, they were able to get Dean out of his wet coat and his wet button-down denim shirt but wisely halted their attempt to pull his black-t-shirt over his head when he made a slight sound of protest.

"This coat sure is heavy." Betty mentioned, picking it up off the floor. She made no move to go through any its pockets but Wendell noticed the way Dean's green eyes darkened and his breath deepened. Hmmm….Dean had been reluctant to take it off and now he didn't want anyone touching it.

"Hang it up." Wendell ordered suddenly, somewhat sharply, and Betty, having decided to defer to Wendell's judgement on all things regarding their stranger, did so on a hook on the wall made to hang coats. "Leave it." Wendell said when Betty tried to straighten it out and brush it down with her hands.

Oh, but Dean did not like her attending his coat! He was coiled and tense and ready to spring.

"Higher."

Betty turned back. "Did you just say that?" she asked Wendell, harmlessly swinging her ever present towel off her shoulder and lazily aiming it in his direction.

_You snap that towel one more time, I'll tie you to that coat hook with it._

"No, he did." Wendell wasn't going to quibble. He sure didn't want the man coming off that chair so he removed the coat from its hook and laid it out on a high shelf. When he stepped back, he realized that it was now out of reach of anyone but a tall adult. Betty would need a stepstool if she wanted to get it down. Well, huh! What the hell did its pockets contain anyway?

He held the denim shirt and looked at Dean who merely raised his eyes towards the shelf where his coat sat and Wendell wordlessly added the shirt to it.

"We will have to take them down in a bit so they can properly dry." Wendell told Dean, watching closely for any kind of reaction. "But for now, there they stay." he added when he detected the hitch in Dean's breath. "We'll wait until everyone has gone, how's that?"

"He looks like he swam here." Betty remarked. "Look how dirty he is! He looks like he had a good ole time rolling in the mud." she tut-tutted, tongue clicking. "It's all down his neck, his arms. Why, I just bet that black dirt is all over him. I'll tell you, he is not getting that mud all over my clean sheets!"

_Lady, shut up. My head hurts, I'm cold, I can't feel my feet, I don't feel good, I don't know who you are or where you came from and you are sorely testing what little patience I've managed to keep control of._

"Try some coffee?" Betty offered when Wendell didn't respond and Dean continued to sit and stare and shiver.

"He's not ready to accept anything from us yet." Wendell mused. "Easy there son, pay those cackling hens back yonder no heed."

Betty made a face, lips puckered from the virtual sour lemon she insisted on sucking, but she didn't push. "What can I do?"

"Best to just let him be until the water, ehrm, boils." again, he contemplated asking why she was boiling it – again he chose to keep his ears attached to his head. 'Cause one of these days, she would succeed in detaching one.

"Get his boots off." she flapped her hand in the direction of Dean's feet where his heels rested on the side rungs of the chair. "Now!" she snapped her fingers impatiently when Wendell failed to jump and obey. "Wendell! It is you to whom I am speaking."

"Eh? Say what?"

"His feet are wet. No one is comfortable with cold, wet feet." she huffed. "His boots are full of water!"

_Good grief, old woman, get a grip. I didn't swim here. Well, not all the way. Just to shore. Can't even really call that swimming. Water was only waist or so high...waded through it._

"He didn't swim here Bet." Wendell knelt cautiously, hands up for Dean to see. Dean's look remained unfocused and blank but he did blink. "No way he cudda. That water froze enough our fishing boats can't break it. Even if he'd been in the water when it was still water, it was too cold to survive in for a swim that long. Not in those heavy clothes. Not with those waves."

"Not if he fell off a boat." she pointed out. Wendell tilted his head in agreement. Good point. One for Betty.

"Off with his boots." Wendell agreed. "That okay with you Dean?"

No response.

Dean sat still and let Wendell untie, unlace, loosen and remove first one boot, then the other. No, they were not full of water. Wendell then removed both socks. They were wet. So wet, Betty deliberately squeezed one to make water drip onto the floor to prove her point – whatever point she was making – with a triumphant smirk. Wendell shook his head.

"He didn't swim here." Wendell insisted with a firm head shake of denial. He stiffly rose to his feet and gently patted Dean on his shoulder. "We'll soon have you dry and warm buddy, hang in there."

"See if he'll let you take that t-shirt off yet." Betty had an armful of towels and a blanket or two. "And those jeans."

Wendell made a move and instantly pulled back with a startled yelp. Damn! Being cold, wet and shivering had not slowed down Dean's reflexes one bit. Wendell checked to make sure he still retained two hands and ten fingers and that nothing was broken. Okay, so yeah, no. Removal of all clothing was not happening anytime soon.

Wendell rubbed his palms together, pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket, wiped his brow, replaced the hankie and still needed more time to consider the situation and calm his nerves. Now what could their mystery guest have against completely disrobing?

Hmmmm….nope nothing came to mind. Mmmmm…no, not shy. Hummmmm…Ummmm…..tattoo? Doubtful. So…come on here Dean, give me a sign. Any sign. Anytime now. I'm waiting. Still waiting. Tick-tock. The theme from Jeopardy. He rubbed his wrist and flexed his fingers...damn but Dean had one hell of a grip. Why, he just bet if he looked closely, he'd find some skin missing!

There! That slight flicker of eyelashes. Aimed at the coat upon there on that shelf.

Mmmm…there was something in that coat…..something….something…..some…thing…..

Wendell touched Dean's knee, nothing. He moved his hand up to Dean's thigh, nothing. Wendell patted down one calf, nothing, then the other, nothing. Oh Dean tensed and every muscle remained taut, but he didn't attempt to remove Wendell's skin or break his bones this time. Wendell picked up one cold, wet foot, nothing. Wendell again patted Dean's shoulder, slight flinch. Wendell slid his hand to the back on Dean's shoulder and Dean twisted ever-so-slightly away.

Wendell caught Betty's eye and made a movement with his hand. Five seconds later, Betty and Wendell were alone with Dean in the kitchen, the door to the other room closed and all was still and quiet.

"You carrying?" Wendell asked quietly. "Not judging." he held his hands up and stepped back. "Just asking you to remove it, unarm it and let me put it up there on the shelf with your coat."

_Oh, this guy was so not a dumb hick! Fuck me, I don't feel good. The hell is wrong with me?_

Dean didn't move.

"Wendy is the only child here." Wendell assured him. "She's a good girl and never left unsupervised."

For a good moment Dean still didn't move then he reached behind his back with his left hand, went under his t-shirt and withdrew a handgun from the waist of his jeans. Wendell shook his head. Now how had wee Wendy not felt that? He smacked his palm to his forehead. Duh! She probably had but she wouldn't have known what it was.

"That's it." Wendell continued to speak quietly and Dean ejected the clip and set the safety before handing both to Wendell who took them separately, then in full view, turned and placed them under his coat on the shelf. "And there they will stay. No one will know they're there. No one will disobey Betty's order to leave your stuff alone. Okay?"

"I'll need to wash and dry that coat." Betty was puttering about, pulling more towels and cloths and even a blanket from drawers and cupboards. She hadn't paid close attention to Wendell's most recent interaction with Dean. "Good Lord!" she gasped, towels falling from limp arms and hitting the floor. "Is that a gun!? He _is_ a criminal!"

_I am not! Well, not really. I mean, in a way maybe. But no._

No response.

"Nah." Wendell quaffed. "Most likely a law official of some sort." he finished patting the coat down over the revolver. "You say nothing about that, you hear?"

_Uh….of some sort…yeah, okay, sure…..I can agree with that!_

"He doesn't look like one I've ever seen." Betty retorted with a haughty sniff. "All big and rugged and unshaven…so, so unkempt."

_You come across that inlet in this weather in an open toy boat and let's see how you look._

"He ain't hardened." Wendell tipped Dean's head up with two fingers under his chin. "Ain't no addict either. Too clean. He eats regular meals too."

"You call that….." Betty waved her hand about. "Clean?"

"Surface dirt washes off Bet." Wendell said. "He's clean, good teeth, good skin, in good shape. He has a home."

"Then what he is doing here?"

_Uh dude, yeah, I'm right here! Don't talk like I'm not sitting right here! God I hate that. Talk to me. ME._

Still not the time to mention Murtha to Betty. "Have to wait until he can tell us to know." he reached for Dean's t-shirt and this time, Dean let him bunch it in his fist. "Okay then, let's get you out of these wet clothes and cleaned up a bit before the hens come back. Arms up, that's it." Wendell chuckled. "They're harmless but they sure do like to cluck and chatter! Most likely, they're scared of you, so no sense giving them an eyeful to go all a-flutter over. Bet, that water ready?"

A wonderfully warm blanket – so warm, it had to have been heated – was draped around his shoulders and he was too miserable to shrug away from the comfort it offered.

_Aahh...soo-o...goo-oo-oo-d._

"There you go." boy, that soft, gentle, even, elderly masculine voice was soothing. "Bet that feels good, huh? Doesn't it? Get you warmed up a bit before we set about scrubbing you clean."

_Aah, huh? Scrub who clean? ME? I'm not dirty, just wet. Oh, and cold. Well, maybe tired. And I really don't feel so good. Ugh._

Dean sat, every instinct on alert but no part of him detected anyone around him meant him harm so he took the mug when it was pressed into his hands, and when they were done toweling his hair dry and patting his cheeks and neck, he sipped the hot liquid – not coffee, something salty, maybe chicken – and swallowed with a moan of contentment.

Activity swirled all around him but he paid it no attention. A warm towel was bundled around his neck covering his ears and tucked under his chin and oh, but that felt good. Oh yeah, he was going to sit right here and enjoy all this attention and care.

The blanket around his shoulders had cooled and it was removed and replaced with another. He couldn't help but again moan in contentment. Yup, okay, he was going to stay here all night and let them bundle him in warm towels and blankets and take care of him. Oooh no, his mug was empty…..he stared at it with a woebegone expression and just like that, he was offered a second mug. He took it but couldn't finish it. It was removed from his limp hands but when he whimpered in protest, it was returned and he wrapped his fingers around it - and why something so simple as having something hot to hold onto was comforting and made his eyes tear, he didn't know or care - as hot water was added to the pan of water his feet were soaking in.

 _What the hell? When the fuck had that happened_? _And why the hell does such a useless home remedy feel so damn good? Oh yes, I like it._

"Okay, let's take a look at that hand."

"His hand?" Betty pffft'd. "Ain't doin' much good warmin' him up, you leave him in those wet pants."

 _Hey, who cuffed my jeans? And when? How the hell did you get them up to my knees?_ _Damn boot cut._ _It looks damn funny. I look stupid._

"The hand with the dirty rag tied around it." Wendell inspected the untie-able knot and asked for scissors. Before Betty could supply them, a folded knife was in Wendell's palm.

"Looks like it was tied with his teeth." Betty sniffed, holding out the scissors. "Where did you get that knife?"

"Mmmm." Wendell avoided answering directly. It was a very sharp knife and easily cut through the layers of wrapped rag. He tested the tip with his finger, easily drew blood, then folded the blade in and returned it to Dean. "He probably did Bet. Can't tie a knot with one hand."

Wendell hadn't seen Dean pull the knife from the back pocket of his jeans but sure enough, that's where he returned it. And if Wendell hadn't been watching him with eagle eyes, he wouldn't have noticed the deft sleight of hand returning it either.

"Bad?" Betty set up a TV tray then set a bowl of hot water on it. She added a pile of soft, square cloths and the first aid box. "What is all that black? That's not mud. Is that tar? Where would he get in tar this time of year? That can't be tar."

"Don't know what it is." Wendell muttered, Dean's hand not clutching the mug between his. "Ain't coming off, whatever it is."

And it didn't. Dean sat still and let Wendell wash, scrub, wipe, and dunk both hands. Dirt, blood, mud and scabs all washed off, but the black gunk remained. Wendell got up, leaving Betty vigorously scrubbing under Dean's nails with a small brush and wandered off, returning with a bar of brown laundry soap.

"Good heavens Wendell, that soap strips oil off denim." Betty scolded. "Put it away."

"And as yung'in's, our ma's washed us head to toe with it after playing in the woods to wash away any possible poison ivy." Wendell retorted. "Didn't hurt us none and ain't gonna hurt him." he eyed the well-worn bar of soap he held. "Heck, this here bar must be as old as you!"

He ducked with a chuckle but the snapping towel whapped him upside the ear. Before Wendell could react, the towel was grabbed, held and tugged free from Betty's iron grip with one yank. It was a gentle, yet firm yank and while Betty didn't lose her balance, she did take a step or two forward.

"Here now, there'll be none of that." Wendell chided, gently wrangling the towel free from Dean's hold. "Just a towel, won't harm no one. Now give me your other hand and hold still. Won't hurt but I'm gonna hafta scrub-a-rub-a-dub-dub."

Dean blinked but released the towel and sat and let Wendell rub and scrub and wash his hands until the black goo began to wash off. Unfortunately, all the abrasive scrubbing left his hands burning and stinging and oh yeah, here came the pain. His right hand was on fire! Ow. He squirmed, leg muscles visibly tightening in his struggle to remain seated.

"Doing good." Wendell cooed. "Almost done."

Jaw clenched, teeth set, Dean managed to keep his groans of discomfort to a mere grunt or two. The effort left him with an aching head, blurred vision, swollen tongue and sore teeth, but yup, he kept his misery to himself. Finally, _finally,_ Wendell set the bar of torture aside and asked for one more bowl of clean water. He rinsed both hands, patted them dry with a towel, announced there was no need of stitches, then rubbed on and in and all around a soothing ointment that dulled the sharp stinging and eased the bite.

"There now." Wendell wrapped a clean bandage around the white pad of gauze that protected the deep laceration across Dean's palm and tied it off with a double knot. "You got nowhere to go, ain't getting off the isle tonight, might as well let the ladies have your clothes to get 'em clean. I can put your uh, items, up out of harms way."

"And where do you suggest we put him?" Betty demanded. "I wanted you to talk to him and get him on his way. Not coddle him and put him to bed. Just why did you do that anyway? I understand isle hospitality and all, but you went above and beyond, don't you think?"

Wendell rose to his feet and began collecting the various items he'd taken from the first aid kit. Here Betty was all worried about her clean sheets and Dean's dirty coat and yet, she wanted Dean sent on his way? Women. "He, uh, said he'd come here to see…" he paused. "Murtha."

Betty's eyebrows met then widened then went and popped right off her head. Wendell bit the inside of his check and sucked in his lower lip to keep from chuckling out loud. It was hard to throw Betty off her rocker, but lordy-lo, he'd just gone and done it. He turned his back, licked this finger and chalked up 1 point.

 _"Murtha Magna!"_ Betty gasped and shuddered, crossed herself, said a prayer and reached into her pocket for her rosary _and_ her cross. "That isle she-witch? I should have known!" she stomped her foot. "Not in my establishment! _Not in my establishment!_ I will not have her here!"

"Okay." Wendell agreed. "I'll take him to her cottage."

Betty frowned. Then scowled. She chewed on her lip. She warred with herself. Here, she ruled the roost. If she willingly gave Dean up, well then, she'd never know who he was or why he was on their isle or what he wanted with Murtha – but if she kept him here…..

"You most certainly will not." she announced. "I just got him warm and clean."

Uh, who just got him warm and clean, Wayne thought? Wisely, he did not say that out loud. Oh no. Sometimes, a man did indeed know when to keep his mouth shut.

"….not dressed." Betty was still verbally blistering his ears. "I haven't cleaned his clothes…."

Oh, he's not going to let you anywhere near them.

"….can't go outside in this weather in just his jeans. He has no dry shoes and…."

"Fine, fine." Wendell raised his hands in defeat. "Andy's apartment will do, I guess." no need to engage in yet another round of heckling with Betty. Nope. Murtha would soon be at their door and Wendell would just _lluuvv_ to see Betty keep the isle's oddest inhabitant out of her establishment. And besides, Murtha's cottage probably lacked electricity anyway. All of the buildings on the isle that didn't have a generator did. All the houses on the isle had a fireplace, so Murtha would have heat. But no, Dean deserved comfort. He was also going to need a bath, remove all that black goo from his neck, but that would wait.

Though, if Murtha insisted on removing Dean to her cottage, well, Wendell wasn't going to argue with her.

"Dean…..come with me." Wendell said. "Yes, yes….we'll bring your clothes with us. See, got them right here. Okay then, that's it. This way."

Dean stood up but didn't walk with Wendell. He only stepped out of the pan of hot water and followed when Wendell walked away with his jacket, shirts and gun.

"That's it. We have a nice quiet room for you. Warm bed, soft blankets. You can unload your pockets, get out of those jeans and we'll let Betty here take them off to launder."

***000***

Dean woke – came to – regained consciousness – whatever, slowly and reluctantly. He didn't want to open his eyes. Didn't want to hear or smell or see but he rarely ever got his way and this moment was no different. Even though he refused to open his eyes, he was indeed awake. He could hear and smell and every tingly sense and nerve and trait that made him human never failed to let him down.

"You're ok."

_Well, okay then! I'm not alone! What the fuck's up with that? Oh yeah hey one tingly sense? Yeah, you're fucked. You let me down._

"You're fine, stay calm." his hand was held between sticky little palms and patted reassuringly. "You're going to be ok."

Something. Just. Wasn't. Right.

He remained still and quiet, waiting, judging, sensing – then finally relaxing when that previously failed sense did not send him any alerts of impending harm and doom. With strength and sheer will, he forced his eyes open, mentally prepared for either fight or flight and….stared into a freckled face fringed with bangs, two high pigtails and missing front teeth.

"Hi." Wendy chirped brightly. "You're awake! Yay! UNCLE WENDELL! HE OPENED HIS EYES!" she shrieked, beaming at him.

Dean winced. His clouded brain told him she meant well and shrieking, shrill, high voices were common in kids her age, but damn, it still split his skull in four!

"Oh say, here now Wendy, don't be bothering the man." Wendell shushed her and freed Dean's hand. "Who let you in here? Dean, are you awake? Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

Dean thought about it, then moved his tongue, found its progress blocked by a wall of unmovable teeth and grunted.

"No? Okay then, now, just relax, you're fine. Take a moment."

_Oh, I'm going to need more than a moment!_

He tried to raise a hand – either hand, any hand but they simply would not obey.

"Now, now, don't fret. Your hands are free, not tied down. You're just exhausted is all."

Is all _?_ Is all? He was god knows where, with god knows who, after god knows what happened and all he was, was exhausted? Oh, he thought not!

_Hey, I'm not 'exhausted'! Maybe a bit tired, but no, not exhausted! *snort*_

"Take a moment." the blanket – yes, blanket – was tucked tighter around his chest and then again, his hand was picked up and patted reassuringly. "We'll talk later." his forehead was felt – why, he didn't know, he was not running a fever, then his cheek. "Sssh…."

"Where am I?" he finally made his tongue, if nothing else, obey. He cleared his throat but his voice didn't respond. Neither did his eyes. His eyelashes flickered then re-glued together.

_Why is there a kid in my room?_

"This here is Andy's room." the pillow under his head was fluffed and adjusted. "Fresh sheets and all, no need to fret."

_Yeah, and that explains what?!_

"How did I get here?" Dean managed after a moment or two of wrangling with his tongue.

"You walked. I helped you, of course."

"I….no…." he frowned. "I did?"

 _Why would I need your help and who the fuck are you anyway_?

"You were in shock, still are I think."

"I was? I am?" wait, that voice was familiar. Kinda. Wait, was there two voices? Oh yes there was! No wonder he was confused. "From….what?" two voices, but not a kids. Now, what the… huh? "Who says?"

"It hasn't been long at all." scolded someone. "He barely had any time to sleep." some fluff and flutter went on around him, moving the air. "Just listen to him, slurring his words, barely a whisper."

"Who…..?" he became distracted and lost whatever thought he'd been trying to voice out loud. "Ban...dages?"

"I did. Yes. You helped. So did Betty."

 _What the….? Dude, complete sentences._ _Speak them._

"Am I…..?" he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry and his throat once again thick. "How bad is….is it?"

_What am I saying? How bad is what?_

"Nothing serious." he was assured. "Nothing broken, just some scrapes and abrasions, few bruises. Couple days of rest, some good food, you'll be fine and we'll send you on your merry ole way."

_Good, good, that's good. Okay, well, thanks. Wait, couple of days?_

He yawned. Then frowned. Wait, he still didn't know anything. Who were these people? Where was he? What had happened? Why were these sheets so soft and comfy? They were like fleece. Did they make fleece sheets? Where could he get some?

"Sleep."


	3. Chapter 3

_Sleep? How the hell do you expect me to get any sleep with shrieking banshees hovering all over me?_

If he slept, he didn't sleep long. Oh no. Nope. He stirred, moving restlessly, eyes flickering but remaining closed as he fidgeted.

_Maybe if you people all went away and left me alone for 5 minutes, I might be able to get some sleep._

"Is he sleeping? I don't think he's sleeping." Betty whispered. "He was only sleeping for maybe 15 minutes before Wendy woke him up."

"Maybe if you stop hoverin' all over him." Wendell huffed. He rather wished Dean would just settle down and fall asleep and as much as he wanted to blame Betty for Dean not doing so, he knew it wasn't her fault. No, Dean was alone with strangers, in a place he didn't know. So, nope, he wasn't going to settle down anytime soon. "And Wendy didn't wake him up simply by sitting beside him. He wasn't asleep to begin with."

"He most certainly was until she shrieked in his ear!" Betty hissed. "And why wouldn't he be? The way you coddled him."

Wendell shook his head, too tired to take up the argument Betty was aching for. He never could figure her out. Her moods and emotions swung so fast and so severely that there wasn't a person alive who could keep up with what she meant or wanted: Go see him; kick him out; take care of him; don't coddle him.

Wendell had made the room as quiet and safe and comfortable as he knew how. The door was closed, but not latched. A dim light sat on a dresser across the room – not too dim, not too harsh – soft enough to light the room with a gentle glow that chased shadows into the corners. It was neither too warm nor too cool. He limited the number of people who had access to the room to him and Betty – oh, there'd be no barring her – HAHA – and while Dean was tucked in bed, his movements were by no means restricted, the blankets light but warm.

That was coddling? Well alrighty then, Wendell was guilty.

"Let's just back off a bit and see if he falls asleep." Wendell said, gently steering Betty towards the door. "He might drift off, it's quiet and he's alone, okay? I know he can't feel good, that hand of his must be giving him a bit of a fit. Let's see how that goes."

Betty sniffed. And glared. And waggled her finger. Then pivoted on one heel and stomped from the room without another word. Wendell shook his head and followed.

***000***

Dean stirred, gingerly testing his whereabouts and circumstances by moving his left foot. Finding it free and unrestricted from movement underneath a blanket, he relaxed and let his ears and nose do all the work for his poor, befuddled mind. He smelled…flowers, baking bread, old-man aftershave. He heard clinking and clanking but it was all distant. Now, were his eyes going to cooperate? Open, open….come on, blink….blink…..nope. Okay, so oh well.

_I'm thirsty. Anyone got some water? Anyone? HEY! Need something to drink here!_

"Well, hello there." Wendell got up from the old, worn recliner he had attempted to move closer to the bed but had given up on before getting it as close as he wanted. Had he been a younger man with two good hips, he would have just sat in that torture devise Betty insisted was a comfortable wood rocker because she had made its cushion, but at his age he required actual comfort. And that was the big old chair that required two men to move. "Dean?"

Wendell waited several seconds to see if Dean would awaken, but he didn't. He stirred, moving both legs restlessly under the blankets, head rolling on the pillow but he didn't open his eyes. He muttered nonsense, a word here and there clear but nothing Wendell could make any sense of.

"He awake?" Dean heard someone ask, felt another presence hovering too close in his personal space and wished they'd both back the fuck up. "Do you know what he's saying?"

"Not a clue. Thought maybe he was goin' ta wake up, but guess he's just restless." Wendell replied. "Still." how the hell had Betty known to just show up now? "Something's disturbing him."

"What? It's quiet in here. I've kept Wendy out and the ladies busy." Betty whispered. "I've a mug of tea, think he'll drink anything for you?"

_Tea? TEA? I don't want no fuckin' tea. Coffee, woman. Strong and black._

A warm hand slid under the nape of his neck and he tensed, veins in his throat going taut as he prepared to launch from the bed – again in either flight or flee - but the soothing tone of 'ssssh, shush, sssssh' and the gentle hold at the back of his head was enough to keep him calm and he didn't fight when his head was lifted from the pillow.

"Here. Can you sip a bit of this? Just a bit, a sip…..that's it….there you go."

_Huh, okay, so tea really isn't that bad._

He licked the moisture from his lips, wondering why both his hands stung and his right one ached. Odd.

"More? No? Enough then? Okay, maybe some more in a bit."

His head was returned to the pillow and he turned to face the wall, cheek nuzzling against the fuzzy pillowcase. Man, he _really_ liked these sheets. He turned his head back when he felt a cool cloth pat his forehead, seeking the cool relief on his suddenly hot skin.

_Oooooh yeah, yeah that feels good. Keeping doing that._

"Like that, do ya?" Wendell chuckled softly. "Yeah, bet you do."

"What is that?" Betty asked Wendell as they tucked Dean in, one on either side of the bed. "I thought it washed off when you cleaned his hands."

"Lordy but I tried, so guessin' mebbe a scar? I scrubbed him pink and it didn't still come off." Wendell shrugged. "He's got more'n than one scar on him."

"Well, he needs to wake up and get a bath. Wash the rest of that black off him." she clucked her tongue in disapproval. "All down his neck, under his chin."

"It ain't comin' off on its own. Stop worrying about the sheets." Wendell chided. "He's alright being a bit dirty for a while."

Irritated, Betty asked. "Why didn't you say that before and let his hands go then?"

"Well, 'cause of the injury to his palm." Wendell's tone reflected that, that fact should have been obvious – even to Betty. "Couldn't let that go un-na-tended, now, could I?"

"He's still shivering. Despite the heat in this room and those warm sheets, he's still cold." she waggled her fingers at Wendell. "He's cold to touch, he needs a warm bath."

"Not now." Wendell said testily, tone daring Betty to push. He kept an eye on Dean who visibly tensed beneath the blankets, curled his hands into loose fists, tensed with a hint of a wince and relaxed his right hand.

 _No one_ _is giving me a bath!_

But Betty backed down with a sniff, then collected the mug and flounced, yes, flounced, out of the room. Wendell chuckled and resumed his seat.

"No need to fret there Dean. Fear no bath."

Time passed.  
The storm raged.  
Dean didn't waken or emerge from the stupor he had been in since his arrival that Wendell stubbornly insisted was shock.  
Wendell sat in the recliner. Why, even Wendell didn't know.  
Betty puttered in and out of the room, bringing hot tea and bowls of tepid water.  
Wendell helped Dean sip the tea and patted the sweat from his face with a soft cloth dipped in the refreshed water.  
Summoning the isles marine vets was discussed and immediately dismissed when Dean became agitated.

Night came; the bar closed, Dean fidgeted, the ladies went home, Dean fidgeted, Wendy was put to bed, Dean fidgeted, Betty soon followed Wendy, Dean fidgeted, Wendell dosed in the recliner, Dean didn't wake up nor settle down; He tossed. Turned. Kicked at the blankets. Repeatedly lost the pillow. Muttered nonsense. Called out a time or two. And tossed. And turned. And fidgeted. And winced and huffed in discomfort and winced and huffed in pain. And winced and hissed.

And Wendell remained because – well – despite all, he still didn't fully trust their slumbering guest. Though what he thought he would do should Dean go on a murdering rampage, was unknown.

***000***

Three people stood around the bed where Dean STILL fitfully slumbered even though dawn had long since come and gone; Wendell, Betty and…Murtha Magna.

Dean had yet to fully awaken, yet to calm down, yet to relax, yet to fully submit to Wendell's administrations, yet to accept more than a few sips of tea, yet to accept anything other than chicken broth. If startled, he fisted his hands and visibly struggled to maintain control and remain calm, and though Betty fussed and fretted, Murtha did not appear at all flustered.

Nope, not Murtha.

Now no one knew much about Murtha. No one knew how old she was. No one knew where she came from. No one knew how she had come to live on the isle – or when. She just always – _was_. No one knew how she made money or what she, well, _did_. She didn't hold a job. As far as anyone could ever remember, she had just always been there; in her cottage that faced away from the mainland on the highest hill the isle had overlooking the bay that lead out to the ocean.

"Well? Do you know him?" Betty demanded impatiently. "Do you know who he is? You must, you just showed up at my door, demanding entry."

"Aye."

Wendell and Betty exchanged a look. There was no pushing or hurrying Murtha Magna along. She did everything in her own time and that was all there was to it. Repeatedly asking her who Dean was, was not likely to get them an answer until she was either ready or willing to give it.

"Does he mean us harm?" Wendell asked quietly, squeezing Betty's hand to keep her quiet. They already guessed Dean didn't – 'cause if he did, he would have done so by now – but neither he nor Betty had given Murtha Dean's name or any other information regarding his arrival. So, the fact she knew who Dean was and had known to come in search of him at Betty's, was reason to tread lightly.

"Nay." she shrugged.

"Were you expecting him?" Wendell asked when it became apparent Murtha wasn't going to say anything more.

"Not surprised to see him."

Wendell squeezed Betty's hand harder. "So, you know he's here to see you?"

"Should we call the authorities?" Betty worried. "Maybe we should see if we can call the mainland."

Oh sure, Wendell thought, be all concerned _now_ after we stripped him, scrubbed him clean, took away his guns and knives and tucked him into Andy's bed and tended him for well over 8 hours.

"They'll come for him." Murtha poked Dean in the shoulder with one finger. "Has he spoken at all?"

"Who will?" Betty asked. "The Sheriff?" she attempted to tug her hand free from Wendell's. She failed. "How? The bay has frozen over. Do you think they'll get the ice breaker out tonight just to come after him?" she twisted her head around to peer out the window – not that she could see anything, for though dawn had come, it was dark outside, the clouds heavy and thick. "It's too windy to put a chopper up."

"Betty, shush." Wendell said mildly. Murtha wasn't bothered by Betty and would continue to ignore her but Wendell wanted his curiosity satisfied and Murtha wouldn't do that if not given the space and time to reveal what she wanted to, how she wanted to. "Just a word here and there is all." he belatedly answered Murtha's question. "Shock, maybe? I think anyway. He let us clean him up, drank some broth and sips tea, but it took some talking. He lets us near him but is guarded and we have to move slowly, talking to him all the time. It's like he struggles to focus and when he does, he'll accept our help but otherwise….." he shrugged. "I don't push him."

"He said his name was…" Betty began, giving Wendell a dirty look. Oh, but she did not like being told to shush.

"Dean." Murtha supplied. She tilted her head to one side, still gazing at their unconscious guest who hadn't responded to her numerous pokes. "Dean Winchester." oh, he'd tensed and hunched a shoulder before flinching away but that wasn't the response she was looking for. She wanted him to wake up. "Come on buddy, let me see those purty greens."

_Yeah, that's right. Dean. And you poke me one more time, I'll snap your finger in threes. And how the hell do you know my eyes are green?_

Betty finally freed her hands, waved and flapped them about frantically then captured them and clasped them together, palms to chest, unable to force words out of her landed-fish imitating mouth.

Well now, Wendell thought gleefully, so _there_ was a way to shut ole Betty up!

"Winchester?! Dean Winchester? _Theee Dean Winchester?_ As in, the hunter Dean Winchester? _That_ Dean Winchester? What on earth is he doing here?!" and full steam ahead. "Why would a hunter come here? This hunter! Of all hunters, why this one? What is he after? Did you do this?" she rounded on Murtha. "You did this. You always were trouble."

_Aah hell, I ain't that bad!_

"Oh do calm down." Murtha sighed, well accustomed to Betty's dramatics. "You are well acquainted with the hunting community. This isle grows and provides herbs and plants and ore mined from the inlet, needed for spells and weapons."

Bummer, Wendell sighed, Betty sure was quick to recover.

"But they _never_ come _here_!" Betty exclaimed. "Everything is mail-ordered or shipped to stores and shops on the mainland! Murtha Magna, I swear, if you did something to bring hunters – _this hunter_ – to our little isle, I will lead the campaign to banish you!" her finger was waggling away and Wendell wondered what would happen if Betty dared to grab Murtha's ear.

_You? Banish Murtha? Need popcorn and a beer to watch that happen. And, uh, say, don't you have any idea how and why the residents of this isle know about hunters?_

Murtha snorted. Oh yeah, she'd like to see anyone even attempt such a thing. Wendell chuckled out loud at such a suggestion. Oh yeah, like that would ever happen! The islanders were scared to death of Murtha.

_And about all those never-heard-of and hard-to-find herbs and plants not found anywhere else in America you all grow and sell? How do you think that all came about? And what about how we make some knives we hunt with? Or bullets? The hell? You know how to make them, how? Oh yeah, right, ask Murtha._

Dean stirred, sliding on the bed, knees coming up and hand coming out from under the blanket.

"Easy." Wendell reassured him. "Easy there. It's ok."

Betty regrouped. "How did he get here? And why tonight, in this weather, of all nights?" she was winding up to a full-on blown case of hysterics. "What brought him to our shores? What did you do Murtha? This is your fault. Wendell, do something. We can't have him here!"

_Oh well, now, you see, pipe down! My head hurts! Me and Sam, we meant to wait until morning to come over….huh, my hands sting like a bitch…..OW...but not because of the weather. There was no storm like this when I left. But Sam wrenched his back…..he isn't in his twenties no more either, and he took some pills to get some sleep and let me tell you, they knock him on his ass. But yeah, so the guy we were looking for to bring us over here shows up at our motel room and says he can bring us over to the island but we gotta leave now 'cause he wanted to get home before dark 'cause a storm looked like it wanted to 'brew'. Yeah, that's right, he said 'brew'. Anyway, Sam said go, he couldn't come 'cause he can hardly move and the pills knock him out but the storm came and now you have me as your guest. And seriously, these sheets are freakin' awesome!_

"Mmmmm." Murtha mused. "Find Billy Porter and ask him."

"Billy?" Betty curled her lip in distaste. "That reckless, thrill-seeking half-wit?"

"He was raised on these waters. No one knows these currents and tides and depths better." Murtha said mildly. "You can't blame the storm on Billy."

"But you can on Dean." Wendell guessed, always adept at reading between the lines. Murtha nodded with a smirk. "He came here looking for you?" another nod. "Do you know why?"

Murtha finally broke her stare from Dean and turned to look at Wendell. "I don't know specifically what he wants; an ingredient to make a charm or hex bag or perhaps a talisman, a spell, or a book." she shrugged. "Something we have brought him here."

"But he came to see you specifically?" Murtha shrugged then nodded. "Did someone or something try to stop him?" Wendell inquired. "And since he's here, why hasn't the storm abated?"

Murtha merely gave him a look. He nodded in understanding. The answer was Sam.

"So, who…..or what…doesn't want Sam here?" Wendell asked. "And why?"

"Wait, are you saying….? This storm…? You are! Well, then give him whatever he wants and send him on his way." Betty ordered. "Now. Conjure up Billy or do whatever it is you do and find him and make him take Dean back to the mainland." the air around her shimmered with her expectations that she would be obeyed. "Now."

"Not that easy Bet." Wendell shook his head. "He's hurt. There's a blizzard going on out there and we don't have a boat on the isle capable of breaking through the ice to get there."

"Well!" she waved a hand all about. "Call someone, get a chopper, get a sub, they go under water, call the Coast Guard…..get him off this isle before evil comes here after him." all previous comments about frozen bays and winds were no longer a concern. "Blizzard?" she repeated suddenly. "What blizzard? That?" she pointed to the window. "Outside? You call that a blizzard?" she sniffed haughtily. "It's a flurry or two being blown around by a gust of wind."

"The cause of the storm is not evil. It's simply nature. Maybe egged on, but still, just nature." Murtha leaned over the bed to peer closer at the arm Dean had exposed. She pushed the blanket aside and picked up his right hand to get a better look at the blemish on his arm. "Mmmmmmm."

Dean's fingers curled into a fist and after she turned his arm and back, he pulled free with a strength that belied his unconscious state. Murtha didn't fight him and let him go.

"Saw that. Assumed it's a scar of some sort." Wendell commented. "Know what it is?"

"Mmmmm…..not a scar." and now Murtha knew exactly what Dean was after. "And it's not evil that will follow him here." she told Betty. "So settle your feathers and come to roost."

"Are you now saying nothing or no one will come after him?" Betty demanded. "You just said they would come for him."

"I'm saying nothing evil will." Murtha hedged evasively.

"He's on the run from the law. Figures, what with the gun and those knives." Betty guessed. "Violent, I say." she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "State Troopers? The Feds? Sure, sure, bring outside law to our shore. Murtha, get rid of him."

"He's a hunter Bet, of course he had a variety of weapons and sharp objects." Wendell reminded her. She shot him a venomous look and he ducked his head to hide a grin. "He, uh, has a violent job, but that doesn't mean he is." he paused, then added. "And on the run from the law? Now what sense does that make? He's dead to the world." he gave that remark some thought, then chuckled. "At least a time or two. I think. Mebbe."

_Right, not evil, not violent. Jeesh!_

"The law is not coming." Murtha tucked Dean's arm back under the blanket and pulled it up to his shoulder. He stirred against the unfamiliar touch but didn't waken. "Sssh…..settle. Sleep."

"Bet, she means; where there's smoke, there's fire; you have salt _and_ pepper; socks come in twos; a bike has two wheels, do you see where I'm going with this?" boy-oh-boy, was Wendell ever enjoying this. "A package of Reese-Cups has two cups; a car has two pedals, the brake and the gas; Hostess Coconut Sno Balls come two to a package, two-halves make a whole; the lyrics to your favorite Marvin Gaye song 'It takes two'?"

"Stop rattling on like a demented old man!" Betty ordered. "I swear, every day you make less sense."

"Two's Bet. Everything comes in two's. Where there's Dean, there's Sam." Wendell sighed. "You get that? He's not far behind, right Murtha?"

"Sam? Sam who?" Betty snapped, and then it hit her. She staggered backwards, gasping for her breath. " _SAM?! Winchester!_ Here? NO! NO! I will not have it!" she stomped her foot. "What if he thinks we kidnapped Dean? Or are holding him here against his will?! Good God! He'll burn this village to the ground! He'll blow us up! We'll sink into the ocean! We'll float away! We'll be adrift!"

_Hey, shut the fuck up! Sammy's harmless. Now, I don't feel good and your nattering nonsense is making my head hurt worse. Go get me some more of that chicken stuff and a couple of aspirin. And how the hell can you sink and float and be adrift?_

"Here now, pipe down Betty. You're disturbing the boy." Wendell cautioned in a mere whisper. "Just look at him fidgetin'. You don't wanna go waking him up, do ya? I just got him to sleep."

_I'm not sleep. Man-oh-man, my hands hurt!_

"Do you not remember hearing the stories about the time Sam burned a town to the ground and tortured residents because they kept his brother from him?"

_That's not right, they didn't keep me away from him, they…uh…threatened to...and that wasn't Sammy…that was when he, uh, well….see….his soul….it went missing for and….hey! What the hell you doing? Watch it!_

"He's on the mainland." Murtha confirmed. "Sam." she'd leaned over Dean once again, and was now feeling his forehead and cheeks. "He knows and he'll be here as soon as the storm abates."

_Yeah. Yeah, he is. Don't go get him. Keep him there. And dammit you witch, stop touching me!_

"Just what do you mean by that?" Betty demanded. "Wendell, what is she talking about? How can Sam Winchester know anything? What do you think he knows?" she rounded on Murtha. "How do you know that? What do you know you're not telling us? Wendell, do something!"

"The storm is not meant to hurt anyone." Murtha said cryptically. "It'll soon die down."

"Is there any way you can notify him Dean got here and to wait for the storm to end before trying to get here?" Wendell asked Murtha, ignoring Betty because – honestly? – he didn't have any answers.

"What nonsense is that?" Betty scoffed. "Power is out, phone lines aren't working, cell tower ceases to work in mere rain. You seriously think it's working now in this weather? Humph. There's no internet. CB can't transmit through this wind."

_Yeah, yeah, do that. Tell him I'm fine. 'Cause I am and I don't wanna leave. I like it here. It's warm and I'm comfy and I love these sheets and hey, still waiting for more of that salty chicken water._

Murtha rolled her eyes and answered Wendell's question with a mere nod. She could reach the mainland with a message despite the weather. Wendell trusted her and that was enough. How was nobody's business. Probably by carrier pigeon or tame dolphin. More likely? Ham radio or some other such electronic devise.

"Where's Andy?" Murtha asked, casting her eye about the room. "He around? He can help me move Dean to my cottage. He's going to sleep awhile. He took quite a beating getting here."

"Say what?" and Betty did _yet_ another turn around. She was giving Wendell whiplash trying to keep up with her. "Take Dean to your cottage? Oh, I think not."

"You don't want to keep him here, do you?" Murtha raised an eyebrow. "He'll be down for several days, perhaps a week. Sam will eventually come for him. Do you really want him to find his brother, flat on his back in bed, here? You just pitched a fit that Sam would destroy us all."

Insulted, Betty puffed up. "He can have his brother! Sam will find no reason to suspect we kept his brother from him!" she continued. "What would Sam have us do? Put his brother on a sled and hope the ice holds his weight?"

Murtha rolled her eyes. What utter nonsense.

"You have a bigger problem than an irate Sam Winchester landing on your shores and darkening your door." Murtha said, once again reaching for Dean's right arm. "You see this?" she pushed the blanket down and tapped a finger against the blemish on his forearm.

"That? It didn't wash off. And believe me, we scrubbed. With laundry soap." Betty stated. "It's a scar."

_Yeah, my skin still stings like a bitch. And my hands hurt!_

"Not a scar." Murtha corrected for the 2nd time. "And the reason he's here."

Betty took a step back and put a hand up in the universal symbol for – give me a moment. She was neither stupid nor naïve. She knew enough about hunters and their world to not dismiss _anything_ out of the ordinary.

"Did he come here to have you remove it?" she asked. Murtha nodded. "Can you do it?"

"I've seen the like of it before." Murtha mused. "Poor fellow."

"What does it do?" Wendell asked. "Is it a dangerous? Does it make him dangerous?"

"But does that mean you can remove it?" Betty asked again, more insistent. "Murtha!"

"He's strong. He can fight it." Murtha shrugged. "And no….not dangerous. It's like a burn…..but not really…I'll have to talk to him to find out exactly why it was given to him."

"What does that mean?" Betty demanded in exasperation. "Good grief, must you always talk in riddles?"

"Why?" Wendell questioned. "Not who? Then you know how he got it? What it is?" Murtha nodded. "But not why?"

_Why do you think I'm here? Fuck yeah, I know what it is! Jesus Christ! You think I came here to go fishing? I don't ice fish. Sonofabitch! SAaaaAAMmmmmMMM! You told me she was a witch! Not one of them!_

"Does it….I mean…..are there affects from it? He hasn't spoken more than like three words since he got here." Wendell said. "He hasn't really reacted at all. Other than when he first got here and was upright and walking, he hasn't said anything."

"He's not exhibiting any right now." Murtha reached out with care and thumbed up one eyelid at a time. Dean tossed his head but when she didn't let go, he submitted. "His problem right now is exhaustion from battling the elements crossing the inlet on Billy's boat. Perhaps injury. Stupid really, attempting to make that crossing in this weather. Too late to turn back I suppose."

_Aah, not stupid. There was no storm when we left the mainland. The dude said it looked like it wanted to brew. Believe me, Sam never would have let me leave in a storm._

"Can you remove it and return it from where he got it?" Wendell asked. "Is it that simple?"

Murtha fought a grin. "He's in more danger from suffering the elements of the weather than he is from that….." she paused, searching for the right word. "…blemish."

"Going on what we know of his reputation, they were hunting and fighting something." Wendell reasoned aloud. "You think he crossed a witch and was cursed?"

"Nay, not a witch. And he knows how to remove it." Murtha responded. "It's why they're here." she shook her head then pulled her brows together in thought. "Just, this storm." she glanced out the window and just like that, the pane of glass rattled and pinged with sleet, or maybe hail. "Odd, that."

"Where is Billy?" Betty asked suddenly, either unware or uncaring of the conversation between Murtha and Wendell. "He didn't bring Dean here."

"His boat took on water, Dean brought them to shore." Murtha said. "Billy's at the docks, tending his boat."

"I offered to get the marine medics to take a look at him but he wasn't having it." Wendell shared with an amused smile.

Murtha snorted. "Do you blame him? Fish doctors, bah!" she moved away from the bed. "He's human. He's most likely in some state of shock and his body is doing what it needs to help protect him so he can heal. We just need to give him time. We'll need to take care of him, help him until Sam gets here." she paused again. "Were you able to examine him for serious injury?"

"No. He let us help him out of his wet clothes and wash his hands but that was it. That black goo was tough to get off." Wendell was explaining. "Still has quite a bit on him, didn't even try gettin' it off."

"Wait, just wait." Betty protested. "Billy's the best on these waters yet Dean brought him to shore? And he's on the docks, tending his boat in this weather?"

She went ignored. Wendell and Murtha continued to discuss how best to take care of Dean and Betty began to think perhaps it would be better if he were relocated to Murtha's' cottage.

"So, when this storm abates, you think Sam will arrive?" Wendell was saying. "Soon, I bet."

Murtha nodded. "It'll die down. Dean's here. He made it despite the storm." she made a face, not quite a frown, more a look of thought. "Though it might kick up again, Sam hits the water. Mmmm." she pursed her lips. "Odd, that."

"How do you think that happened? I've seen those waves Murtha. And the ice." Wendell pointed out the window, though nothing could be seen. "It iced over in 30 minutes or so."

"Bit of prayer." she said cryptically. "He has friends."

"So, all that black gunk. Not mud." Wendell asked, Murtha shook her head. "Nor tar." another shake. "Do I want to know what it was?"

"Probably not." she smiled. "Harmless, don't worry."

"Why?" Betty demanded, all thoughts of sinking and being adrift and banishment and authorities forgotten. "Harmless maybe but it doesn't come off. What is going on here Murtha?"

"He's fighting." Murtha said simply. "He's strong, but again, he's human. A human fighting a supernatural force."

_Not supernatural. Mystical Sammy called it._

"A what? Who? Us?" Betty demanded, fed up with being ignored. "What unearthly creature is out to get him? What harm will befall him next?"

"No harm. More….mischievous." she canted her head. "My guess? They were on a hunt, found it wasn't a job and he got involved in a ….well, game."

"Huh?"

_That's right! You are so right! That's exactly what happened! Wanna know something? Don't piss off a Brownie or Goblin or Imp or whatever Scottish folklore fairy Sam labeled it, who's been nipping moonshine! Oh damn….Don't itch, don't itch, don't itch….Do. Not. Itch._

"He suffered trauma, his body took a beating, he's injured, in pain and running a fever." by golly, Wendell done swore that was affection that fleeted across Murtha's face. "There's internal conflict."

"He's in shock." Betty stated as if neither Wendell nor Murtha had suggested it themselves.

"He's struggling to maintain control." Murtha said mildly. As she spoke, Dean's hands curled into fists. "Hey there, relax."

_If I itch, the scratching will start….._

"Control of what?"

"Himself." Murtha relied simply, as though that explained everything. "Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, good and evil, right and wrong." she shrugged. "It's a fight and a battle we can help him with." she reached for Dean's hand and massaged his knuckles until he relaxed his fist. "There now, that's it. Just relax. No itching, no scratching."

_I don't feel good. Where's Sam? Sam? SAM?!_


	4. Chapter 4

Well, must be dark out by now, Sam thought lazily. He considered whether or not to give it the 'good ole college try' and attempt to, you know, get off the floor: Tried. Failed.

Nope, sprawled on the floor, one leg raised with his foot resting on the bed, the other stretched out on the floor as far as he could extend it was a mighty fine position and he saw no further need to attempt to move from it. 'Cause as long as he didn't move, he wasn't in pain. Oh, pain meds helped but he attributed his odd, should-be-uncomfortable-but-wasn't position as giving him the most relief. So, yeah, right here on the floor was juu-uuss-ssst fine.

He had the TV remote, two pillows to cushion his head and ease his neck and a blanket across his chest and shoulders, so yes, really, he was comfy-cozy right where he was. No one was around to bitch that they had to step over him. The storm that had come up out of nowhere made it unlikely he'd be able to go anywhere anyway, so…... nothing to do but remain sprawled on the floor and watch TV until he fell asleep. Hopefully by morning, he'd feel better, Dean would return with the last ingredient needed to make the spell to remove that stupid mark from his arm and then they could head home.

Did Dean ever listen to him _? Noooooo…..it's just a game Sam. See Sam? They just want to play Sam. I tell ya Sammy, they're harmless. What can they do to me Sam?_ Well now, didn't Dean just find out what they could do to him?! Pfft, Dean could just take care of his latest stupid act himself. Not like he was in any immediate danger. Murtha and the – for lack of a better word – cure were a short boat ride away. No need for Sam to stress or worry or suffer anxiety attacks because Dean had once again acted bone-headed. Nope, not this time. At least this time, it wasn't a life or death situation.

'Cause come on? What could happen on a twenty-minute boat ride across a calm inlet to an isle full of friendlies? Right?

Sam sighed, befuddled by pain-meds and too tired and too close to a mostly sleepless night of pain and discomfort, to think clearly. Maybe he should make a bigger effort to crawl off the floor and into bed…..it was past time to be abed….and maybe he should look out the window, see what the storm was up to…..okay then Sammy-ole-boy, up and at 'em, and a one and a two and a…..no….yeah, so okay…..staying right here. Nope no need to get up, Dean would have made it to the isle by now, bit of wind and rain wouldn't have impeded his progress much, maybe delayed it a bit, hopefully made him wet and cold and uncomfortable, served him right for ignoring Sam's excellent advice…and huh, what was that? Seriously, _what was that?_ Was that….. the damn room phone? It was! WTF? Who the hell would be calling his motel room? Really? _REALLY?!_

"Fuck me." he managed to extend one arm and with his fingertips, snag the cord to the receiver and pull the phone to the floor. Thank god for motel rooms last decorated in 1980's that still had actual table phones with receivers on a cord. What time was it anyway, he thought sourly as he maneuvered the receiver to his shoulder, held still with his chin and slurred a sleepy - what/hello/who/fuck into one syllable.

"Good evening sir, this is the front desk calling with a message for Sam." the person on the opposite end of the line took the grunted-garbled word, whatever it might be, as affirmative and rolled on. "Yes, well then, Murtha wants you to know that Dean is safe on the isle and they will keep him comfortable until you are able to go get him. Sorry to disturb you, have a nice night."

Wait what? Keep him comfortable? Say what?

_**CAS!** _

***000***

Betty clasped her hands and pressed them against her chest. "Fight? Battle? And if he loses control? What then? What happens? How bad will it be? OH! He _IS_ violent!"

"Bet, settle down. Help him how?" Wendell asked Murtha. "Is'in there some reason he won't wake up and talk to us? Been like this since last night when he showed up. When was it Bet? Near 9 or so? Was still thinkin' shock but now, not so sure. He's warm and clean and had some tea to drink. Bit o'broth to eat. He should be comin' 'round."

Murtha splayed Dean's fingers on both hands and let his palms rest on the sheet. "There now, better?" she looked up at Wendell. "He allowed you to tend him, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but we had to be on guard and real careful like." Wendell admitted. "Gotta watch him, move real slow around him."

"See? He isn't violent. You gave him no reason to be. He had a peaceful night." Murtha praised. "And he didn't itch at the blemish at all, and you don't want him to start."

 _Right. Sammy says as long as I don't scratch, it won't itch_. _And if it doesn't itch, all is good._

"So, that's his internal conflict he's fighting to control?" Wendell mused, Murtha nodded and Betty, well, Betty had had enough. Good ole Bet was ready to blow. "And if he loses and starts to itch? What happens then?"

"Mmmm." Murtha shrugged. "That's unlikely to happen. He's strong."

"Now see here!" Betty stomped her foot. "I will not be ignored! What is he doing on this isle Murtha? If he's violent, I don't want him here. He can go. Fix him and send him away. It's that simple! Give him what he wants so you can leave too."

_Oh, for the love of…Fine! I'll leave. I can skate…..gimme a pair of skates and I'll just take myself back to Sam._

"Oh, Good Grief Betty." Murtha shook her head. "He did not come here intending us harm. That blemish is not going to make him go on a murderous rampage. It might cause chaos but he can control it."

"What does that mean? Chaos? Murtha, I swear…" Betty began, Wendell shushed her and she turned her ire on him, but he put his palm against her lips. Oh, he would pay for that! "Answer Wendell. What will happen if he scratches that mark?"

"What is that mark going to make him do?" Wendell calmly asked, removing his hand before Betty thought to bite him. She bared her teeth but remarkably held her tongue. For, Wendell conceded, Betty did have a good point. She just went about providing it all wrong. "Shuddn'n we be worried? Wee Wendy is here, should we move Dean to your cottage?"

"He's strong enough to fight its lure." Murtha repeated. "He knows what he's up against. I'm sure Sam researched the lore thoroughly. They know they have to have it removed." she paused, then continued. "It's not meant to be harmful, but neither is it meant for mortals or this human world."

"Wait, what?" Betty was bouncing on her toes. "Human world? What does that mean? Wendell, what is she talking about? Mortal? Of course Dean is mortal. We all are! What else is there? Murtha, make sense!"

_Oohh….oohhh, I am. But…..now Murtha…..yeah, not so mortal._

"So what happens iffin' he can't control it?" Wendell wondered. "Will it or sumthin' else get loose in our world?"

"It's well, like a game of tag." Murtha explained further to Wendell. "Whoever bears the blemish is 'it'. Not at all serious or harmful in the realm where it comes from, but here, in this realm…..for him or any mortal, it can carry consequences. Normally it's harmless, that blemish. In our…..in the realm from which it comes, it can be put away – like a ball when a game is over. But here….on…well, this, ahha, part of earth…..there's no place to put it and well, he's mortal. As long as he doesn't itch, he can keep control, and so he battles. Eventually, not even someone as strong as he is would be able to control it and it would make him seek out someone to 'tag'. But it won't come to that. I can remove it and send it back where it came from and you can help him control it until I can do so and Sam gets here."

"But how did he get it?" Wendell asked curiously. He knew nothing about Murtha other than she lived on the isle and provided what was needed for the residents to sell to hunters so that the isle earned an income. It didn't make anyone rich, but it kept the isle isolated, the way they liked it. Except Murtha…..she never left the isle and now that Wendell paused to give it some thought, she always had what was needed or knew how and where to get it. Like now, like what this blemish was, where it came from, how to remove it and how to send it back where it came from. Wherever that was.

Huh.

"I'll need him to tell me."

Wendell shrugged with a sigh and let it go. He'd pursue all that bit and stuff and nonsense at a later time. "If'n you're sure it's just a game." he trailed off doubtfully, then shrugged again and regrouped. "Sure, then. How do we help him?"

And Betty? Oh no, not Betty. No shrugging if off there. Nope.

"Realm? Human? Mortal?" Betty ranted on but went ignored. "Games? Fights? Battles? How is any of that harmless? Violent, evil, I say. Hunters should not be here. They should never come here."

Exasperated, Murtha rounded on Betty. "What do you think hunters hunt Betty? Bambi and Peter Rabbit?" she rolled her eyes. "They hunt other worldly creatures….heaven, hell, other realms, alternate universes…..they fight curses and spells and hexes…..I swear Wendell, what rock did you find her under?"

"Oh now just a minute! Don't you stand here in my establishment and insult me! I will not have it." Betty thrust her chest out, chin pointed, elbows angled, resembling the chicken Wendell always accused her of clucking like. "You see here Murtha Magna!" and her finger waggled away. "You can't just waltz in here, take charge and remain all secretive and cryptic. I will not stand for it. No sir, it will not be allowed." her hand shot out, fingers unintentionally catching Wendell up the nose, making him snort. "Not a word Wendell. Not one. Just no. There was no storm. No bad weather. Not even a cloud. What sense does that make? Tell me. Tell me right now. Don't you shush me. Dean shows up and the inlet freezes over? Because Sam might follow? Who could do that? And just _how_ is Sam going to get here? The only fool willing to navigate those waters at night and with the threat of a storm is Billy and he's already here with his allegedly damaged boat!"

Wendell stepped back, both hands creeping up to cover his ears. Boy oh boy, Betty was on a roll. And he wasn't going to be the one to point out it was no longer night. Though, it was rather dark for morning hours.

"A fool, mind you, who is supposedly the best navigator on this isle yet had to have help from a stranger to these parts to bring his boat to shore?" Betty ranted on. "A storm just brews up out of nowhere to prevent Dean from reaching the isle? A storm that continues to prevent the arrival of Sam? A storm that took out the isle's power? Just how did Dean know to find the one building with a generator? How did he know he would find shelter here?"

Murtha stood next to the bed where Dean was stirring, hands clasped together in front of her and said nothing but boy, was she ever staring Betty down.

Wendell calmly stepped between the two women. "Now what?" he asked Murtha. "I get that you know what's going on and you ain't scared, so I ain't gonna be neither, but hunters, they keep the isle folks living. I don't want no trouble from them. Heck, hate charging them for what we supply, but we got expenses, know what I mean? I hate to put 'em off or kick one out, but we do hafta keep us safe."

"Mmmm…..we supply to anyone Wendell. Internet ordering is great. We charge the happy home-maker and the dabbler in the occult prices we don't charge hunters." Murtha replied absently, her attention now elsewhere. "He's not going to harm anyone. And there's no need to fear Sam." she added with a dark look at Betty, disapproving over her dramatic carrying-on.

"How do you know the difference?" Betty demanded, previous demands for answers forgotten as it became apparent Murtha and Wendell were having an entirely different conversation she wasn't part of. "Don't give me that sly smile, Murtha Magna. I've had it up to here with your secrets and mysterious ways." her hands went to her hips and she side-stepped Wendell. "How do you know a hunters order from anyone else's? How?"

Dean stirred, muttering nonsense but becoming clearer the more Betty ranted. Murtha laid a hand on his shoulder.

"No answer?" she waited, but received no response so she moved on. "Chaos? No danger? No harm? What is that black goo all over him? Where did it come from?" she took to repeating herself, still wanting answers. "What froze the inlet and conjured this storm? How did he make it here? And oh yes indeed, I do mean conjured. What 'egged' it on? Mischievous? What is mischievous?" Betty ranted. "What is going to happen? He doesn't talk, he stares blankly, he looks like he'd like to detach my head from my body. There is a child here!"

Murtha merely raised one – just one – eyebrow. "I don't control the weather Betty."

_Don't, not can't. Sneaky Murtha, oh-so-sneaky. Sam's gonna love spending time with you._

"You are soooooo sure Sam will come after him? How? HOW?!" Betty stomped her foot. "How is that possible in this storm, with that ice? No boat, no guide. How will he even know to come now? And why? Why do we even want him here? He is dangerous!"

_For the last freaking time, you old bat...Sam. Is. Not. Dangerous!_

"And Dean isn't?" Wendell couldn't help but ask. Oh, he'd pay for that.

"Oh no." Betty stated stoutly. "No you don't Wendell. No. You've defended him since I made you go talk to him. Now you say he is dangerous? Compared to Sam? You tell me Wendell. What town did Dean ever burn down? Huh? HUH?!"

So, _now_ Dean was harmless? Wendell shook his head, boy he was tired. He was having a mighty hard time keeping up with Betty and her wild ranting's and rapid topic-changing questions.

"So, how do we help him?" Wendell asked Murtha. "What does he be needin' you for? Or from you? Do you need our help? Guess we can keep him here, iffin' you're sure Sam'll be okay with it. Can't see sendin' him out into the wet and cold."

"Once he tells me how he got it, I'll know." Murtha was deep in thought. "But if he was injured on the crossing, if there's a head injury or something internal, if he's in need of a doctor…" she shrugged. "We'll do what we can to keep him calm and comfortable until Sam gets here. I believe he will be responsive to Sam." now she paused. "You can help him by staying with him. Don't leave him alone. Don't take your eyes off of him. Don't let him itch that mark. Talk to him, keep telling him Sam will soon be here." Murtha paused yet again. "Do what you can for his fever and the pain. Basic first aid. Keep him warm and quiet and attended. I don't expect any trouble from either him or Sam, but…."

"But?" Wendell prompted. And just wasn't there always a 'but'?

"But I can only predict, not know. He does not lead an easy life. He trusts few and relies on fewer. I assume….no, I bet, he will respond to Sam, but…."

Another but!

"But what? What are you saying now?" Betty demanded. "Are you implying I would let harm befall him? Now see here….!" she waved her hands around to encompass the entire room. "I don't know what you think I'm going to do to him…..or not do. We helped him last night, we gave him a bed, Wendell sat up with him all night. Now, if he doesn't want our help, there's the door."

"Keep him hydrated, feed him, just…..go easy on the salt. Don't want to scare him." Murtha ignored Betty and continued to address only Wendell. "He's probably won't take much from you, water, tea, broth is all good."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Betty demanded with a haughty sniff. "Why, I never! I do not over salt my food."

Betty sure does become stupid whenever Murtha's around, Wendell mused thoughtfully, wonder why that is? He bit his cheek to keep from chuckling. Murtha and Betty usually kept 'to opposite sides of the street', so-to-speak.

"It _means_ he is a hunter." for the first time since her arrival, irritation crept into Murtha's tone. "You don't want him to think you believe he might be a demon, do you?"

_I kinda like that salty chicken water. It ain't too salty and it's better than anything that smells or tastes fishy. I'm a meat and potato man…Sammy's the 'I'll try anything' dumbass. Who, when, why…..did anyone ever get the idea that oysters were supposed to be eaten? I mean, come on, how do you chew snot?_

Betty drew up, chin jutting out, finger waggling as she advanced on Murtha. "I run this place and I need neither interference nor advice from you! No one – not one person – has ever complained about my food or anything else I serve here." she announced, the last insult being one too many. "Nor do I serve _demons_! Whatever they are! You can just take yourself home Murtha Magna. You were not invited here and you are not wanted." she stomped her foot and fluttered her hands. "We kept him all night and we did just fine without your interference!" advice, Wendell thought with a wince, advice would have been a much better word Betty. Too late now. "We kept him calm and quiet and comfortable and he _still_ is not responsive. I don't see how you saying it is going to make him suddenly so!"

"For Pete's sake Betty!" Murtha exploded, then visibly collected herself but couldn't keep the bite from her tone. "You birthed children! Somehow, you managed to raise them through childhood. Do you not remember what an infant is like? They like to be held and warm and bundled. They like to see things and hear voices and find comfort in the arms of another. They are content with body warmth and a heartbeat under their ear. All he requires is attention and comfort. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"Because. He. Is. Not. An. Infant!" Betty seethed.

Again, Wendell stepped between the two women but Murtha had already calmed down and in the blink of an eye, had forgotten Betty and returned her attention to Dean.

"Any idea how he hurt his hand?" Murtha ignored Betty and looked at Wendell. "Serious?"

"Nah, rope burn. Deep but not a cut. No need of stitches. Hurts him some, o'course, but not so bad." Wendell traced a line on his own palm to show her the length of Dean's gash. "Guessin' he got it helpin' Billy bring the boat 'round."

"If Dean should he be more severely injured than we think, he may not have the strength to fight that blemish for long." Murtha spoke calmly and reiterated: "We will need Sam if that happens. Dean doesn't know us, he doesn't trust us. He isn't going to respond to us the way he will to Sam. He won't fight for us but he will for Sam."

"You! You always talk in riddles." Betty accused. "You. Did. This. He came here because of you and now we are all in danger because Sam Winchester wants his brother back."

_What the...? Are you back to that, AGAIN? No one is in any DANGER from Sam! Good God, get off it already. Aah hell…..My head hurts. Quit yelling. Sammy ain't gonna hurt no one. Geesch._

"I'm hungry." wee Wendy announced, barging through the door. "Hey, that's not Andy. He's still here? So, what are we eating? Pancakes? Hi, Ms. Magna."

What, it was breakfast time already? Wendell glanced at a clock over on the dresser. Good Lord, it was going on 10 a.m.! No wonder the child was hungry. Wendell was surprised it had taken her this long to seek out the adults.

"Wendy, child, what are you doing in here?" Betty snapped impatiently, turning to block the child's view of the bed. Wendell didn't know why, Dean was properly dressed and covered with blankets. "Run along and find something to do."

"I wish to eat." she pulled a pout. "I'm hungry."

Dean stirred, lured by the idea of something hot to eat into fighting for consciousness. But boy-oh-boy, that hurt. He became acutely aware that he either ached or throbbed or stung or itched or burned in every joint of his body. Even his toes hurt – they throbbed in beat with his heart, his toenails a barrier against the pressure that threated to burst through and explode. He didn't want that. He'd miss his toes. They were vital for walking normally. And oh, but he was cold. So cold, he couldn't stop shivering….there, now his teeth were chattering and everyone was staring at him in concern. And wasn't that great? Great, just great.

"Hey, hi there." Murtha was leaning over the bed, nearly nose to nose with him…..no, he took that back, not nearly, their noses were touching and he was none too fond of her extreme closeness. "Open your eyes Dean. Open your eyes and look at me." she ordered. "You need to talk to me so I can help you. You came here to see me. Who gave you that blemish on your arm? Can you tell me?"

The blemish-bearing-arm in question batted her head away by a soft knuckle chuck to her chin. She nodded, not the least bit afraid or offended and pulled back. Green eyes stared up at her, none-to-friendly, but neither were they angry.

"There you are. Hi, I'm Murtha."

Dean licked his lips and Wendell put a mug of tea in Murtha's hand. Dean took a sip, grimaced at the taste then allowed Murtha to support the weight of his aching head and hold the mug while he drank what little bit he wanted.

"Not too fond of tea, I take it." Murtha returned the mug to Wendell. "Coffee man then." she let Dean's head rest back on the pillow and waited until he found a comfortable spot then patted his check. "Stay with me. I need to know who gave you that mark on your arm. Yes it matters. I know it's why you came here to see me and of course, what you need to remove it probably isn't sitting in a ready-made bottle on my shelf, so it might take me a day or two to obtain all the ingredients needed to make the spell."

"Red…..short….sea…weed." he licked his lips. "Two…..a game."

"Spell?" Betty pounced. "What do you mean, spell?" she rounded on Wendell. "Wendell, what does she mean by 'make the spell'? What is going on here?"

"Aah." Murtha actually smiled in relief then sighed. One ingredient not easily obtained, had to be fresh and didn't come in powder or liquid form. No problem, she would be able to provide him some, but as she'd said, it would take a couple of days. "No fear, I can make the spell, remove the blemish and return it where it belongs. But I need to give a stern talking to the imps who created this storm and cause it to continue." she rattled on. "It's not fair for the islanders to be caught in the middle of their game. And make no mistake, for them it is a game. They've taken sides; one wants to see you win, the other wants you to fail."

"Win? Win what? This game of tag? What does he win?" Betty asked. "And what happens if he fails? What does this storm have to do with any of that?"

_Sam didn't call them imps. Called them twin….twin….well, twin something. There were two and they're twin something._

"Aye, I know. The twins are just playing." she patted his hand. "I thought as much, but had to be sure. Now that I know who gave it to you, I know exactly what I need. Okay then."

Dean simply stared at Murtha, mentally cataloging every ache and pain and categorizing into levels of discomfort. Ow, he really didn't feel so good. Murtha studied him right back, coming to the silent conclusion that perhaps she had better send Sam a second message telling him not to dawdle in his effort to retrieve his brother. She wasn't how sure Dean would react among strangers if seriously ill or injured.

"What is he saying?" Betty pushed Murtha aside and stood over the bed. "Are you awake?" she asked Dean bluntly.

"Now, now Bet." Wendell gently steered her back from the bed. "Don't go crowdin' the boy, he ain't gonna like that."

_That's right, personal space, respect it._

"I'm still hungry." Wendy tugged on the hem of Betty's smock. "Aunt Betty?"

"Yes, yes child. Breakfast." she gave Murtha a glare and shot Wendell a look then took Wendy's hand and left the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Sam remained motionless, the phone receiver on the floor next to him, as he waited for Cas to instantly appear in response to his mental summons.

But…nope. Nothing. Not a flutter, not a flap, not a movement of air.

Well…fuck. Wasn't that just great!

When he got a hold of that scatter-brained feathered Xmas novelty he was going to….oh wait, no…no, couldn't blame this time on Cas. No, this time was all on Sam. Cas had an uncanny ability to get into Sam and Dean's….no, not minds, but their thoughts and not only if they prayed. Dean could construct a mental wall to keep Cas out, but he had to be strong and functioning fully to do it…..and when injured or imbibing copious amounts of alcohol, Dean was rendered unable to. And Sam? Pffft…

So, Sam and Dean had spent a rainy day devoted to research and lore on how to keep an angel at bay…..mentally. The finally uncovered answer was so simple, Sam had rained Dean's favorite 'sonofabitch' quote down upon his brothers head for well over an hour. No really, he'd blistered Dean's ears.

Peppermint water.

All you had to do was…..drink peppermint water daily. Yes, it was that simple. The preferred method was peppermint leaves, ground by the tried and true, trusty method of mortar and pestle, and added to a glass of water, cup of coffee or hot chocolate. And poof, angel two-way mind wave was down for hours. When in a hurry, peppermint extract found in the bakery aisle of any grocery store was good enough. The difference between the two methods? The extract was weaker and didn't last as long.

Anyway…no, wait…..he hadn't had peppermint hot chocolate with his pain meds, had he? No, no he hadn't. Or maybe he had. Sam sighed, struggling to focus his befuddled mind and wrestle his disorientation into some sort of semblance. He winced, rubbing his forehead when his temple began to pound. Yeah, his lame attempts weren't going so well.

He managed to sit up, swing his leg from the bed so that both feet on the floor, but yeah, that was it.

Cas…..Cast….Castiel…..oh, right. Yeah, Cas was injured, but mending. He simply wasn't strong enough to pop in and out and should he try, he might well end up in a city of the same name but in a different state, or sometimes, a complete other country. Or if he did manage to make it to Sam, he'd be too weak to be of any help whatsoever. Oh. And then….. _and then_ , if he landed somewhere else, he'd have to rest and recoup before he could attempt transporting – teleporting – popping-in, whatever again. Yeah, so anyway, Cas was healing up in…in…dammit, think…..right not happening, not with the effects of the meds he'd taken…hell, he couldn't even name the town he was in! No matter, Cas wouldn't be coming anytime soon to heal either his back or whatever ailed Dean. He'd call Cas once he was with Dean and find a place they could meet up with the angel so he could do some healing.

"Fuck."

He and Dean really needed to get on with finding a way to help Cas heal completely after his last run-in with a tainted angel blade… 'course, they also needed to find out what it had been tainted with…..anyway, all that meant was, Cas wouldn't be arriving any second so they could go retrieve Dean….he'd have to do it himself.

So, what time was it anyway? Day? Night? Morning? Did it matter? No. Dean must have reached the island, and he'd left at…around….near, what six in the evening? Yesterday? Maybe? Anyway, for Murtha to know he was on the island….he had to be there, right?

And of course, he was Dean. And arrival, on the island, unscathed, without incident was simply too much to expect.

Cursing, gritting his teeth, concentrating on fighting through, off, the lingering effects of the pain meds he hadn't taken all that long ago – or had he? – Sam hung up the phone, lay down on his side, rolled, pushed to his knees, crawled to the bed and used both palms on the mattress to brace himself to his feet.

"Ow…dammit…..sonofa…mmmmmm…ow." finally standing, he limped, gimped and shuffled his way over to the window and drew the curtain aside. Okay, so dawn had come and gone, it was no longer the dark of night, but the sky and clouds rendered the day gloomy and grey. Great. How the hell was he supposed to find someone to take him across the inlet in that weather?

Everything was wet and frozen, which meant, so was the water….frozen that is…so, Coast Guard ice cutter it would have to be. Damn Dean. Never make anything easy, do you? And that mist….was it fog? IT WAS! Man, if he could hop and howl, the motel residents would be calling 911 over the racket he'd make.

Of course, a rational person would realize that there was no need to drop everything, fight through pain and fight off the effects of medication to reach an island frozen off from the main land to do nothing more than sit beside their brother and watch him sleep. But he was Sam – sane and rational were not used to describe him whenever Dean was involved. If Dean were truly in danger…..Cas would have heard from him and Cas hadn't called to tell Sam that Dean was hurt, so there was that , but yeah, no….Sam was going to that island, storm be damned.

Hold on Dean, you dumb ass, I'm coming.

***000***

Wendell blew this breath out in relief. Boy-oh-boy, Betty in a snit over Murtha, plumb wore him right out!

"He should eat something." Wendell commented. "I should go see 'bout a tray."

"Take some ibuprofen ?" Murtha asked Dean, noting his flushed checks, the lines around his mouth and the tight skin around his eyes. Oh yes, there was definitely some pain. "Head hurts? Your hand?"

Dean shook his head, then, surprising both Murtha and Wendell, he sat up. He didn't speak, just licked his lips, prompting Wendell to mutter about getting him fresh tea or water to drink and disappear out the door. Dean raised the blankets, relieved when he found he was wearing someone's – probably Wendell's, maybe the missing Andy's – pajama pants, though he had no recollection of putting them on, and tossed the blankets back, swinging his feet to the floor.

"Out the door, go left, third door on the right." Murtha said simply. Once he was out the door, she produced her cell phone and sent a text. She had some things to see to.

"Where'd he go?" Wendell returned with a tray and set it on the dresser. "Brought him some aspirin."

"Bathroom." Murtha replied. "That was quick."

"Betty had it ready."

"Will you be alright with Betty if I leave? I need to put an end to this storm, start on the spell to remove that blemish and return it where it belongs. I can take Wendy with me if you like."

Spell? Wendell chuckled, darned good thing Betty hadn't heard that word a second time! He rubbed the stubble on his jaw. He was a bit tired and ready for a nap, and Betty, despite her blathering and grand-standing, would keep an eye on their guest.

"Sure, sure." he moved about, straightening and tucking the sheets and blankets tighter, fluffing the pillow. "Wee Wendy is no fuss. Don't be givin' Betty somethin' more to pitch a rant over by takin' the child with you."

"If you need me, I'll be at my cottage." she picked up her ankle-length cloak and allowed Wendell to drape it around her shoulders, nodding her thanks as she tied the strings beneath her chin. "When Sam arrives, if he's out of sorts, send him to see me." she flipped the hood up. "God Bless." and while Wendell was blinking, she was gone.

"Well, I'll be." Wendell puttered about with the tray. Betty had sent in piping hot oatmeal flavored with cinnamon sugar, a mug of milk-sweetened coffee, buttered toast, a cup of yogurt and a dish of cut-up fruit. He doubted Dean would be hungry or tempted by the meal intended for an 'invalid', but then again, he did need to eat. "Aah, there you are. Mornin' to you. You be fixin' for a bite to eat?"

Dean stood in the doorway, unsure what he was supposed to do. Exhausted by his short jaunt to the bathroom, hair wet and cheeks damp, he was shaking and unsteady. Still, Wendell noted, he did not look at all ready to obey gentle commands – erhm – suggestions. No, he was taking in his surroundings and making some sort of decision. Fight or flee? Confront or submit? Argue or concede? Demand or …..oh, maybe stay or go?

"Here now, back into bed with you." Wendell nodded, making the decision for him. "Murtha went on home to …well, to do whatever it is Murtha needs to do to help you, I guess. She says the black stuff will come off….don't fuss over it…..oh, that's it, goin' down, easy, we'll just pile these pillows up….get you a bite to eat….no? Maybe a piece of this toast? Not burned. Real butter with just o'touch o'honey. No? Okay then."

Dean had allowed Wendell to take hold of his elbow and guide him over to the bed where he laid down and paid no mind to Wendell's attempts to pile pillows behind him so he could sit up and eat. He did accept the mug of coffee and offer of aspirin though, reclining on one elbow to swallow without choking before lying down.

"Here now, not itchin' or scratchin'." Wendell flapped a napkin above Dean's knuckles to chase his hand away from itching at the blemish. "Not gonna eat? Guessin' it'll be my breakfast then." he took the tray and sat down in the recliner, balancing it on his lap – no sense letting the meal go to waste. "I'll just sit here and eat, you sleep."

And so went the day. Dean didn't stir or protest the comings and goings of either Wendell or Betty. Murtha didn't return or call or send word and Dean didn't ask for her. The only thing that bothered, worried Wendell was, Dean had ceased taking anything to eat or drink from either him or Betty….

And he wanted to itch.

***000***

Betty heard the knocking on her back door, oh yes she did. She just didn't see the urgency to rush to open it. Now yes, it was rather late for deliveries, and had her mind not been preoccupied with her unwanted guest, whom she wasn't willing to give up, who was still in Andy's room, _and_ who had been a fussy pain in the ass all morning – not to mention Murtha and Wendell ganging up on her – she might just have realized, what with the weather, no deliveries would have been made.

And it was normal knocking. Not pounding. Not rapid. Not frantic. One fist, not two. No banging. So, she assumed it was either Andy or Billy and she took her time, shouldering her towel and setting aside her hot-pad holders before making her way to the backdoor and unlocking it before pulling it open. It wasn't until the sight that met her eyes in the dim light that she thought perhaps she should have asked who it was.

"You're not the delivery boy." she stated before belatedly thinking perhaps she should fear the large, looming figure that blocked her doorway. "Who are you? Did Billy send you here? Or Andy? I swear, those boys….." she shook her head. "Oh. Are you here with a message from that isle she-witch? Well, spit it out and be on your way."

"I'm wet. I'm dirty. I'm cold. I'm in pain, on meds and in a bad mood. I want my brother and if the next words out of your mouth are 'you don't know where he is', I'm trashing this place until I find proof he was here." he paused for effect. It worked, she stepped back. "And then watch out." and oh good God, the smell of baking bread made him drool.

"I see." and she did. But she didn't move to let him in. She knew he referred to Dean, so this must be Sam. Oh, yes, yes indeed, she could see this man pitching a pit. Maybe not burning a town to the ground, but a temper-tantrum, sure. She wavered between fear and curiosity….Dean had shown no violent tendencies, even though he'd been armed…..and just how had Sam known where on the isle to find Dean? And how had he gotten here? The inlet was still frozen. Boy-oh-boy, but she was tired of mysteries and unanswered questions. "You couldn't have used the front door? We are still open, you know."

"Where. Is. He."

Betty licked her lips, her nerves deciding to act for her. She stepped aside and with a flick of her towel, granted Sam admittance with a snapping wave. "I suppose you're here for Dean. Sure took your time getting here, didn't you?"

Sam blinked, stunned. Say what?

"…..Murtha Magna." Betty sniffed. "Here. In my establishment. Just showed up. And uninvited, mind you. We had him all night, you know. Had to stay here."

Sam blinked. Apparently he had missed all of what she was saying. Were his ears clogged?

"…..you couldn't come yesterday?"

Had the old bat not looked out the window lately? Did she not know about the weather? The ice? The lack of power all over the island?

"….you go and have a meltdown….." she was still going on and on. "…don't go burning down the isle…."

Uh…what?

"I've no wish to be set adrift. Islands are not made to float."

She was demented, Sam decided with a shake of his head.

"Well, go. Go on." the towel snapped the air in front of him. "Don't stand around dripping all over the floor. I have enough to do without mopping up after you. He's in Andy's room. And he's been cranky all day. He'd better settle down for you or bad weather or not, you can just take him to Murtha's." and with that, she dismissed him by turning her back on him and slinging the towel over her shoulder.

Like I have any idea where who the hell Andy is and where the fuck his room might be, Sam thought sourly. He saw a hallway and headed towards it.

"And you'd better not be tracking mud along that floor or you'll be the one mopping it up!" Betty yelled at his back. It was only after he was out of sight and she no longer heard his stomping that she collapsed into a chair, hand over her heart. She needed smelling salts, a burnt feather…damn, she had neither, but she did have whiskey and a shot would do just fine to settle her nerves.

Sam tried doors and poked his head through ones that opened, all the while mentally promising ways to make his brother pay for putting him through all this, until he finally – just what the hell kind of building was this anyway? – came to one that was partially open. He used two fingers on his left hand to ease it open further, his right hand resting at the small of his back, ready to pull his gun if he felt whatever situation that confronted him required the discharge of fire arms.

Whatever he expected to see, sure as hell, wasn't what greeted him.

A child, a girl of perhaps 5 or 6, sat Indian-style on a hard chair next to a bed reading from a large white book on her lap. She looked up, grinned a sneer missing several front teeth and went back to reading. An older gentleman snored softly in a huge old recliner and there, on the bed, was Dean.

Oh, but was he ever going to make Dean pay for this latest stunt. And oh yes, he knew just how to do it, too. He'd settled on the perfect revenge three doors ago.

"UNCLE WENDELL!" the child suddenly shrieked.

Sam jumped, tensing, but the child didn't scramble off the chair or look at all scared. Wasn't it, like, past her bedtime? What time was it, anyway? It took a moment, but he realized that was her way of waking up the old man snoozing in the chair.

 _Go 'way Sammy_. _I gotta know how Clifford, the big red dog, became so big he didn't fit in the house when he was the runt of the litter!_

"Here now!" the man flailed, jerking awake abruptly, and attempting to right his eyeglasses and limbs. "What's with all the yellerin' wee one?" he blinked at the giant in the doorway. "Well now, howdy Sam." he welcomed jovially with a waggle of his fingers, sitting up. "Made it, did ya? Good, good." he rubbed his palms together. "Not so bad a time, then, huh?" he rolled his head one way then the other, working on the kinks from sleeping with his chin on his chest.

"How is he?" Sam ignored the man and nodded at the bed. "Is he awake? Is he itching yet? How bad is it?"

"No, no, he's good." Wendell smacked his palms one last time and pushed to his feet. "Wendell." he extended his hand and Sam shook it. "Found us no problem, eh? He tries to itch but doesn't fight us, we stop him. Murtha said he's strong 'nough fight it."

"Billy was on the docks." Sam said simply, stepping around Wendell so he wouldn't have to take his eyes of the bed. And oh yes, hadn't he just heard the whole story of the crossing in the storm from a gleeful Billy. "What injuries does he have?"

"Well now, Murtha's thinkin' he's okay." Wendell said. "We cleaned him up, best we could. Murtha said that black stuff ain't nuthin' to fuss about. I got most of it offin' his hands, but…..didn't attempt nowhere else."

"Uh-huh."

"Hand's the worst we could see, me and Betty. Knuckles cleaned up and ain't none broken." Wendell continued. "He ain't said much, shock we think….thought….membe. He came in last night…..ain't sure how long symptoms of shock last."

Dean stirred, bringing his knees up. Sam looked at the child, wanting her chair, but she glared right back. Nope, she was not giving up her seat. What time did little girls go to bed on this blasted isle? It had to be bed-time, right?

"Mmmm."

"Been sleeping mostly, since he got here." Wendell continued. "Bit restless, not to content, right fussy at times. Mostly today. Guessin' that there mark is giving him fits. Murtha said he'd be fightin' to control it….seein' what she meant."

"Mmmm." Sam shrugged with a dismissive glance around the room. "No, he's just cold."

"Here now, this room is not chilly." Betty bustled in, giving Sam a wide berth. She meant to simply collect Wendy and make haste from Sam's vicinity, but boy, after all she'd done for her unwanted guest, that snarky-toned comment rankled. "And he has warm blankets."

"But no shirt." Sam pointed out.

And yup, Betty took offense. "We gave him pajamas." she sniffed. "He threw the top in the corner and only put the pants on when Wendell repeatedly pointed out there is a child here." she waved at Wendy, who still kept her seat on the chair and had yet to stop glaring at Sam. Obviously, she resented his intrusion.

"Then you asked him to put them on." Sam retorted. "You didn't tell him to."

"Nonsense." Betty snapped. "Little difference."

"That's right." Wendell nodded. "He was right reluctant giving up his own clothes too. Made no sense, them bein' all wet and dirty."

"Mmmm." Sam moved to the foot of the bed. "They're loaded." whatever that meant, Wendell frowned then nodded. True, true….guns, full clips, knives. "And he knows where you put everything he came in here with." Sam murmured off-handedly. Dean was stirring, head rolling towards the sound of Sam's voice.

"Now see here!" Betty started, all previous thoughts of Sam sinking or setting her beloved isle afire or adrift replaced by indignation. "No one in my establishment would steal anything from anyone! Of all the nerve! Why, I just ought to…"

"Now, now Bet, settle yourself." Wendell chuckled nervously. Sam's demeanor set him a bit on edge and until Sam knew that Dean was whole and comfortable, Wendell didn't see him relaxing his guard any. "Go get our guest some hot coffee."

"Wait on _him_? You want me to serve _him_? After he comes in here and insults…"

"BETTY LOU!" Wendell barked. "OUT! NOW!"

Betty sniffed and huffed, then took Wendy by the hand and led her from the room. Wendell gave Sam a sheepish grin then continued to tell Sam all about Dean's arrival and Murtha's visit and the care he and Betty had given Dean since his unexpected arrival.

"No." Sam took Wendy's chair and reached out to stop Dean from scratching at his arm. "Don't do that."

Dean stilled, eyes blinking as Sam leaned across him in greeting and nose twitching at the familiar scent of cologne.

"Hey." Sam greeted softly. "Take it easy." he once again eyed the room then sat back, satisfied there was no immediate danger lurking in any darkened corner. "We're good."

Dean blinked, eyes finally remaining open and looked around but didn't speak.

"Yeah, I know." Sam said. "Okay, so let's get a look at you." he swung the backpack off his shoulder and let it hit the floor with a thud. "Make sure you're okay."

Wendell started to comment but fell silent and watched in stunned awe/curiosity as Dean lay compliant and quiet and let Sam do whatever he wanted to. And what Sam wanted to do – and did – was:

Check Dean's head for lumps, bumps, bruises, cuts and lacerations by digging his fingers through Dean's hair.  
Check Dean's pupils.  
Take Dean's pulse.  
Feel for broken/dislocated ribs and bones, including all fingers and toes.  
Treat Dean's injured hand to his satisfaction before securely and expertly re-bandaging it with a fresh bandage.  
Make sure Dean was clean of blood, dirt and mud – other than the black goo.  
Inspect the blemish on his arm.  
Order Dean to open his mouth and stick out his tongue.  
Order Dean to make a fist; first one hand, then the other, then both at the same time.  
Order Dean to follow his finger and reprimand him when Dean simply glared before finally complying.

"Arms up." Sam ordered, a shirt in his hands. "Here, no…here…put your hands through…..your hands….that's your elbow….no, not your head, not yet…I said through….through here…not there, here…..they're sleeves Dean….now your head…sit up."

Finally, Sam was satisfied he'd done all he could to make his brother comfortable. Dean now: wore a warm long-sleeved shirt, had another blanket added to the bed, had two pillows removed, had the black goo wiped off by some foul smelling gel Sam had applied by towel, and finally, had willingly swallowed pills Sam had given him.

"So…anything I can get for, erhm, you?" Wendell asked. "You must be hungry. The trip over here musta been a bit of a trial."

"I'm good." Sam said shortly, then added. "Thank you." he was, busy repacking his backpack. Dean stirred, muttering. "Shush." he laid a hand on Dean's shoulder until he quieted and laid still. "I need to talk to Murtha…..can you give me directions to her house?" he asked Wendell.

"Sure, sure." Wendell frowned. "Wait, now? You mean to be goin' there now? I mean…..you'll….um…leave Dean? You sure you don't want a bite to eat first? Rest a bit? Betty bakes her own bread. Her butter has honey in it."

"He'll sleep." tempting, oh-so-tempting, but Sam wanted the cure or spell or whatever it was Murtha was brewing up at her home and wanted to know how long before the blemish on Dean's arm could be removed. Only then would Sam be able to relax and get some much needed rest. He'd had the entire boat ride over to the isle to fret and stew and now he wanted answers and action. "Stay with him and don't let him itch. I won't be gone long."

"Right." Wendell nodded, so, continue doing what he'd been doing. "Well then, you go out the kitchen door, take the dirt path until it ends at the cottage up a ways on the cliff facin' the inlet. It'll be a ways….just stick to the dirt, you'll find 'er." Wendell blinked, and Sam was gone. If the backpack hadn't remained on the floor next to the bed, Wendell would have thought he'd dreamed Sam's arrival.

***000***

Wendell kept an eye on the clock. The wind had eased but it was still cold and it still snowed. He kept vigil in the recliner, talking softly to Dean in an attempt to keep him calm. But as minutes passed, Dean got more restless, no longer content to settle down from a simple touch or a calm voice. He increasingly wanted to itch his arm and Wendell had to tug his hand away with a firm 'NO'.

"Eh, missin' your brother, I bet." Wendell tapped Dean's knuckles until he let his hand drop. "You knew he was here, didn't ya? Don't fret, he'll be right back."

And he was.

Wendell was in the kitchen with Betty when Sam returned less than an hour later. His lips were blue, his teeth chattered and his clothes were wet. He really hadn't taken time to think about dressing for the weather when he'd left the motel. He'd been warm on the Coast Guard cutter because he had remained in the cabin.

"Here, let's take a minute and get you out of those wet clothes and warmed up a bit." Wendell went across the room where he opened the door to a wood stove, stoked the embers and added a couple of logs. "Don't you worry none o'bout Dean. He's sleeping." he added when Sam pointedly looked at Betty. "Let me get you some coffee with some bread and butter. Betty bakes her own and her butter has honey in it."

Yeah, I now, you told me earlier, Sam thought, as he shed his wet coat and muddy shoes. There were no signs that he had tracked mud and dirty water through the halls and across the floors earlier and by the looks Betty was shooting him, he'd be chased with a broom and repeatedly whacked with it were he to do so again.

"You get what you need from Murtha?" Wendell asked. Sam nodded. "Good, good."

Sam wanted to refused the hot coffee and warm bread with honey butter and go directly to see how Dean was doing, but he was too uncomfortable to deny himself the simple treat. So, he gave himself five minutes to stand by the wood stove, gulp black coffee and eat bread before going to Dean's room.

"…and Clifford….bow…bound….ed." Wendy was working through words from the book she held in her lap from her perch on the chair next to Dean's bed. "…..after the so…cer…the ball..Emily had….." she stopped reading and raised her head to glare at Sam. "No scratching." she admonished Dean who let his hand drop back to the mattress with a sigh.

Really? Leave Dean alone with a 5 year-old? A mere kid? Who never slept? What were these people thinking?

"He don't fuss as much with wee Wendy." Wendell explained. "Bit antsy, but no trouble."

Sam nodded.

"Well then, you're back…..I'll just get about my business." he held his hand out for Wendy. "Come child."

Wendell turned over Dean's complete care to Sam and took himself off for a much needed nap in his own bed….wherever that was…. Sam was too tired to care. Betty though, well, she just wouldn't go away. She popped in and out of the room, tip-toeing around, fussing with the tray of soup she'd brought for Sam. She brought bread, then coffee, then cheese and cold meats. Then came and took it all away before Sam could decide if he wanted anything to eat or not. In and out until Sam was ready to slam the door in her face and bar it closed from inside. Like, couldn't she bring in everything on the same, damn tray?

She puttered and muttered, complaining under her breath about Murtha, hunters, danger, burning towns to the ground and whatnot, but never, not once, did she address Sam directly. What, like he couldn't hear her, he pondered crossly?

The afternoon passed into evening, Dean still slept and Sam sat in the chair next to the bed reading a book he'd returned with from his visit wtih Murtha. He texted a time or two, answered emails on his phone, made a call, took some calls all the while keeping an eye on Dean. He didn't appear worried or concerned, but Wendell, who poked his head in every twenty minutes or so, caught the tell-tale signs that Sam wasn't as calm as he appeared; a jouncing knee, the flicker of eyelashes, an intense stare, drumming of his fingers, constant adjusting of the blankets and leaning across the bed to flick at an imaginary fly/bug.

Oh yeah, Wendell thought, Sam had been through just this situation before…..many times before. He also thought; what the hell was Sam doing? Why didn't he attempt to wake Dean up? Why was he content to sit in that hard chair and watch his brother sleep? All day. Into evening. Into night.

Towards late evening, Dean began to mutter and stir, Sam listened, sometimes frowning, sometimes smiling, but always listening. After a good half hour of Dean being uneasy and becoming more vocal, Sam set the book aside and simply sat and waited for Dean to wake up and greet him.

Dean didn't.

Well, tough shit. Sam had had enough of Dean sleeping, he wanted his brother awake and talking and he knew just how to do it. The day had passed and Sam was convinced Dean was not in danger nor was he injured beyond what Sam could detect…..so now Dean could just wake the fuck up and deal with an irate Sam.

"Gonna curse a tic and have it bite you but don't worry, you won't get Lyme disease." Sam teased. "Did you know, tic bites can cause allergies to beef?"

Yup, oh yeah, Sam wasn't playing. Want Dean to wake up and fight? Threaten his favorite source of sustenance….meat.

Wendell exchanged a look with Betty and shrugged. Betty stacked bowls and glass onto the tray she'd grudgingly brought in for Sam's supper that he hadn't eaten, muttering about inconvenient, rude guests. Wendell there-there'd her and covered her hands with his so the dishes didn't clank and clatter with such a loud noise.

"That's it." Sam said when Dean finally opened his eyes and blinked them into focus. Sam easily read the weariness in their depths, knew Dean was still somewhat out of it, but also knew he would be better come morning. He just needed rest and care. He'd taken a beating from the elements on the boat during the storm and he just needed time to recover and regain his strength. "You with me?"

"Mmmm." Dean sighed, rubbing at his forehead, wincing over the spasm in his right hand. "Eh?" he squinted at the bandage. "Ow."

"You're okay." Sam assured him. "Painful, no damage…hey, don't pick at it, leave it be."

Dean glanced around the room, eyes coming to rest on Sam, then tried to itch.

"Keep doing that and I'll tie your hands to the bed." Sam warned. He snapped his fingers in Dean's face to gain his attention. Dean scowled but didn't force his gaze into refocus.

"Salt." Dean muttered, licking his lips. "Chick…..en."

"No need." Sam said patiently. "I checked, we're good."

"Squawk." he repeatedly insisted crossly. "Cluck."

"See? You see what I mean? He makes no sense." unable to remain silent any longer, Betty abandoned the tray and flapped a hand about, hovering too close to the bed for Sam's comfort. "Must have been whacked right upside the head, the way he babbles nonsenses. And it's been all day, mind you. Ever since you got here. Apparently you missed a lump or bump somewhere." Sam's eyes narrowed and Wendell put a hand on Betty's shoulder to steer her back several steps. She wasn't to be deterred. "There are no salty chickens on this isle." Betty sniffed indignantly. "No meal I serve is _too_ salty! I will not stand here and be insulted over the meals I provided for both you at _no_ charge!"

Wendell was unable to stop his jaw from dropping. That was what Betty jumped to? When had Sam or Dean criticized her cooking? How on earth had she reached that conclusion?

But Sam was well versed in 'Dean speech' and smiled softly at his brother, tiredly pushing his hair out of his eyes and glaring at Betty. "You gave him something to eat or drink that was chicken flavored." he stated.

"What? I did no such thing. He would only take tea…." she went silent. "Well, I was making chicken soup while we were cleaning him up and I gave him some broth, but….It. Was. Not. Salty."

"He wants more." Sam interrupted. His back had endured all the torture administered by the chair it was going to take. He was in some serious pain and in no mood for civil conversation. He was ready to evict everyone and lie down on the floor, but no, Dean came first and what Dean wanted, Dean would have. Until Dean was completely awake, speaking coherently, and able to answer all of Sam's questions, Sam would not seek relief. "Get him some."

Betty gaped. Then her mouth snapped shut and she geared up for another tirade. "Now you see here!" she began. "You do not come into my….."

"Come now Betty." Wendell ushered her towards the door. "If you dig far enough to the back of the 'fridge, I bet you'll find a container of broth. Sam, when you're ready, we'll find you some warm, dry clothes."

"Did you hear him? Of all the nerve….." she was still yakking over her shoulder at Sam as Wendell steered her towards the door. "Talk to me in that tone, will he? Who does he think he's ordering around? He can just take himself off to Murtha's cottage. See how he likes that! Why I never…?"

"She never…" Dean said tiredly, eyes still closed. "Shuts up."

"Hey." Sam stood up to stretch, stopping with a hiss and a wince when his back cracked. "How you feeling?"

"Like shit." he raised a hand to rub at his forehead. "Your back?"

"Fine." Sam lied.

"Yuh-huh." but he was too sore and too tired to have that fight just now. "Cas?"

"We'll meet up with him."

"They…wanted a fish vet to treat me." Dean pouted.

Aah, Sam nodded, hence the reason Dean remained asleep and aloof.

"I want these sheets."

Flabbergasted, Sam stared at the bed. He saw nothing special about them.

"I've seen Murtha." Sam said. "She'll have the spell to remove that from your arm in a day or two. We can stay with her until she's ready. The weather will break soon and we can go meet Cas."

"Wendell knows who we are." Dean yawned. "Knows we're hunters."

"So?"

"So, I like that salty chicken water here."

"Sssh, for Christ sake, don't let her hear you call it salty." Sam hissed then sighed. "Fine, we'll stay here."

***000***

"Where are we going?" Dean asked tiredly, allowing Sam to guide him to the passenger door of the car. "Home? I'm good with that." oh, he so wanted to slouch down, lay his head against the window and just sleep. "I'll drive."

"Nope." Sam opened the door and put a huge paw atop Dean's head as he dropped to get in so he wouldn't bang it on the frame of the car. "Feet."

"Gonna meet Cas?" Sam didn't answer. "Wait. Where are we going? Sam…"

"Rapid City."

"Wait…where?" Dean demanded, slamming the passenger door shut and patting the dashboard. Sam walked around the front of the car and got in behind the wheel. "Why?" he side-eyed Sam. "Sam." he warned, not at all happy with the smirk on his brother's face. "Where is Rap….? **_Sam_**?" Sam turned the engine over and put the car in drive. He rested his wrist on top of the steering wheel and stared Dean down.

"South Dakota."

Dean glared.  
Sam smirked.  
Dean glared, then wilted.  
Sam thought maybe the boat ride back from the isle had taken quite a toll on Dean.

"No." Dean said flatly. "Jody has a full house of girls…"

Sam removed his foot from the brake pedal and eased out onto the road. "Not Jody."

Right, Dean laid his head back. Jody lived in Sioux Fall…his head snapped upright so sharply he got dizzy.

"No." he gasped, aghast. "You wouldn't."

"I told you not to tease those twins. Told you to leave them alone, but oh no, not you."

"What the hell's she gonna do? Gimme shelter?" Dean growled sarcastically.

"Mmmmm."

"Not…..not… _Maggie_?" Dean moaned mournfully and his eyes widened. Shit, Sam was serious. "But…..but…..Mad Myrtle's there….Sam…..she…." he curled his hands into fists, keeping the grimace from the pain in his right palm to a mere wince. It took two fists to pound sense or retribution into Sam and he didn't yet have two functioning fists. Not yet. "You're lucky it takes two." he muttered, popping his favorite pair of sunglasses over his eyes as Sam pulled onto the road.

***END***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And when I get my ass in motion…..that will be the next story.
> 
> I had a request for some John in a story...hang in there my friend, I have an idea. It will be a flash back, and word of warning; big bad, mean, evil John will not show up.


End file.
